


Daughter of Samland, Son of Denmark

by Manniness



Category: Hunger Games (2012), Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Alternate Universe - Vikings, F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Intrigue, Romance, Royalty, Slavery, Vikings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 14:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 75
Words: 152,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manniness/pseuds/Manniness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We’ve prepared as best we could, but as I turn the corner on the muddy path through the village hugging the walls of my father’s fortress, I know we aren’t ready.  We would never be ready.</p><p>The Northmen have come.</p><p> </p><p>Written for the March 2013 Prompts in Panem, Day 2: Masterpieces, Visual prompt: Massacre of the Innocents @<br/>http://promptsinpanem.tumblr.com</p><p>NOTE: I may - MAY - take this story down in the future.  So if you'd like to read it, please download a copy.  (I love this AO3 feature.  It rocks.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Northmen

**Author's Note:**

> I did total crap research on this. Total. Crap. I’m drawing from what I can remember of Catherine Coulter’s Viking Era bodice ripper novels (which I read back in high school), and Edison Marshall’s “The Viking” (which is out of print but awesome even if it isn’t historically accurate), and the History Channel’s latest series, Vikings. And one website -- http://www.vikinganswerlady.com So, there you have it. Pretty pathetic.
> 
> Samland is located roughly where Kaliningrad is today (tucked along the coast of the Baltic Sea between Poland and Lithuania, across the sea from the southern tip of Sweden). A quick Google search on the time period (10th century A.D.) didn't reveal much about the culture or social structure there so I'm making it up as I go along.
> 
> Changed Hunger Games character names (ages have been changed, too):  
> Dalla = Delly  
> Finnr = Finnick  
> Káto (should be Káti, honestly) = Cato  
> Kolfrosta = Clove  
> Már = Marvel  
> Oddkatla = Annie  
> Sigga = Greasy Sae  
> 

 

 

## Chapter 1: The Northmen

(Katniss)

 

I follow the sounds of the screams.  Dozens of voices, one shout.  I don’t try to untangle the word from the fear.  I know the source of their terror.  I’ve known they would be coming.  News had reached us last autumn of their increasingly daring raids along the coast and down the rivers of our lands.  We’ve prepared as best we could, but as I turn the corner on the muddy path through the village hugging the walls of my father’s fortress, I know we aren’t ready.  We would never be ready.

The Northmen have come.

A strong hand wraps around my upper arm, jolting me from my daze.

“What are you doing here?!”  I know this voice and I resent his intervention.  “Get back to your father’s bedside!” he orders me.

I wrench my arm from his grasp.  Gale may be the second-in-command of our defense force, but he is _not_ my keeper.

Not yet.

“Who is guarding him?” he roars at me, his fingers curling like talons and catching hold of my tunic sleeve.  He’ll toss me into the nearest hut or cottage and bolt the door if I don’t dig my heels in right now.  There’s no time for his over-protective nonsense.

“Haymitch and Rory!  My father is well-protected!” I scream in answer over the din.  “Unhand me or the first blood I draw won’t be from a Northman!”

Further argument is not possible.

The Northmen are _here._

My ax is not as strong as Gale’s, but it is sharp and fast.  My spear arm is not as brawny, but my aim is true.  Shield-against-shield, the fight rages.  Moments feel minutes-long.  Breaths take an age to exhale, inhale, gasp-hold-release.  Blood on my lips, in my eyelashes.  Mud on my ankles, wrists, trickling down along with the sweat-terror-determination between my breasts.

I should have bound them this morning.

Too late to bother with it now.

The cries of women, children, men saturate the air.  I taste their pleas as I taste bile on my tongue.

There is no such thing as glory in battle.  Loosened bowels and the sick, soft sounds of flesh being ripped open are not beautiful.  The crack of breaking bones and the guttural shouts of those struck with a sudden blow are not pleasing to the ears.

Death and denial clog the street.

I do not want to fight, but I do.  If I do not, one of these dear villagers – _my people_ – will fall to the Northmen’s blades.  These wild men show no mercy to those they raid.  What they do not destroy outright, they will take.  My childhood friends – young women with husbands and babes to care for – will not be taken as slaves or forced to suffer a single brute among them; I will not allow it.

With a mighty swing, the back of my ax strikes a man across his unprotected face.  Blood spurts from his mangled nose and I know I’ve broken it.  He falls to the ground, dazed and teetering on the edge of consciousness.  I would have ended him with a second blow if I hadn’t been shoved.  Two men – one of Gale’s comrades and a burly wild man – grapple in the narrow lane, stumbling and staggering, drunk on bloodlust.  I roll away as quickly as I can, scrambling to my feet and shoving myself away from the stone wall at my back.

The fight is not yet done and my ax still thirsts.

I spot a leviathan of a man with dirty, knotted hair grinning at Gale’s unprotected back.

_No!_

I run, shield and ax at the ready—

—I crash to the ground.  Struggling blindly, I yank my shield up and somehow deflect a leather-wrapped foot.  And then the weight of a man, fully grown, heavy with muscle, and bristling with fight, slams into me.  The shield knocks against my chin, presses down on my chest.

_Can’t breathe!_

I twist and writhe, my heels scraping and digging for purchase.  A shape appears out of the corner of my eye, swooping in, making me flinch, but I cannot escape.

I don’t feel the blow until I wake.

And then I feel it again and again, my head throbbing with every beat of my heart and every roll of the river current beneath the hull of the ship.  I don’t bother opening my eyes.  I know what I’ll see.  The indefatigable mast of a long ship and the ominous prow, the head of a serpent snarling silently into the journey’s path ahead.  I imagine it to be misty, mired, and deep.  There is no going back.

Along my left and right, I hear the rhythmic slosh and grating of the oars.  My hands are numb, my wrists hot and chafed.

I am captured.

Gale will damn me.

My father will cry out for me.

My sister will weep.

_Be strong, Prim.  You are the eldest now._

I am guaranteed only a fixed number of days, none of which will be pleasant.  But I know something these brutes do not: I will die before I submit to their will.  I am not a slave.  I am the daughter of the king of Samland and I will wreck vengeance upon them for their temerity to cross into our lands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any suggestions for improving this monster's historical accuracy would be MUCH appreciated. Thanks!!


	2. Blood-soaked Bindings

(Peeta)

 

“Peeta, you should take a wife.”

I roll my eyes.  “Káto—”

“Really.  I’ll speak on your behalf.”

“A frightening prospect.  Your words are as blunt as your wits.”  And this trip is taking far too long for my taste.  I yank on the lead rope, urging the pony to pick up his feet.  The laden cart creaks and squeals as its wheels jounce from one rut to another.  I shove at it absently, welcoming a focus for my irritation.  “I can find myself a wife all on my own,” I grumble.

“Of course you can.”  He doesn’t believe me.  Why should he?  I hadn’t shown any interest in the maids at the Thing some two fortnights past.  He thinks I’ve missed my chance and will have to wait for next year’s gathering.  I can hear it in that cursed chuffed tone of his.

He advises, “You may yet find a woman at one of the feasts, but you’ll want to steer clear of the shield maidens.  They’d be a bit… rough on you.”

He jests, of course.  I am strong enough, but the meaning is the same: as a freed man, no daughter of a warrior would consent to wed me.  And even if one did, her father would slit my throat first.  An able body means naught when you are the son of a slave woman.  And I can only lay claim to the latter.

I clench my jaw as I step awkwardly on the uneven road.  It has been a long two-day journey.  My left leg throbs.  It takes every bit of my will to keep my knee from folding under me.  I am not a cripple.  I am not.

“You’ve a bit of muscle to recommend you,” Káto continues, like a wolfhound gnawing on an ox bone.

I may not be as tall as Káto, but we are equal in strength.  Our wrestling matches attest to that.  I may not have much skill with the ax or knife, but I once clubbed a boar to death when I was little more than a boy.  I have the uneven gait and the scars – and I still have the tattered hide of the beast itself – to prove it.

“But you fight like a blind spinner.”

I grit out, “Just because I cannot call upon Thor like _some…”_   I don’t bother to finish the thought.  Káto will only heap a jest on top of whatever words I would choose to say.  He’s obligated to torment me.

My face heats and he laughs, slapping my back.  I hate that he never reddens, not even when he’s down a dozen cups.  He takes after his father that way, a man who sailed to this land from across the sea and conquered it.  I take after my mother.  Soft-spoken and easily moved, be it to tears or a rosy blush.

“We’ll find you a sweet milkmaid,” Káto announces.  “With soft hands and a ready smile.  One dimple or two?”

If not for the increasing number of people on the road, I would have shoved him.  We are friends, yes, since childhood, but we are not equals and we never will be.

“Our tribute is plentiful this season,” he declares.  I follow his nod and glance back over the cart heaped with sacks of barley to the line of cattle plodding in our wake.  “The womenfolk will notice and their fathers will consider you.  If for no other reason than to have a place on such a prosperous farmstead.”

I am not swayed by his logic.  “I’ll not choose a bride of whom Kolfrosta does not approve,” I inform him, eager to set aside this topic.  Káto bellows out another earth-shaking laugh.

“Ah yes!  I knew we forgot something!  Or rather, someone!  How can you find a woman if _my wife_ does not approve of her first?”  Kolfrosta is very particular about whom she permits under the same roof as her beloved daughters.

“I’m lucky she tolerates me.”

“True enough.”

Again, I must battle the urge to shove him into the ditch.  Hm.  Perhaps I _could_ call upon Thor after all…

My smile fades as I notice motion up ahead: a group of men tromping up the road from the sea to the great fortress of Trelleborg.

“Ah.  That’s Már,” Káto muses aloud.  “But he seems to have misplaced a few of his oarsmen.”  And the ones who make their way toward the gates of the fort have more empty hands than not.  A swift but empty return.  This is not a good sign.

“I hope Finnr has better luck,” I offer.

Káto nods.  “We shall know soon enough, I think.”  He strides ahead to welcome his boyhood companion home from the first of the spring raids but I slow my steps.  The pony, sensing my inattention, resumes his preferred dozing trudge.

I pay him no heed.  I am watching the slaves as they are brought toward the gates and _she_ is the only one I see.  She glares at her feet, her head bent and jaw clenched.  Her dark, woven hair is matted with debris and what could only be dried blood.  I cannot see much more beyond her blackened eye and bruised-green face.  Her chin is swollen.  She could be beautiful.  I do not know.  What I do know is that she is proud, determined, and furious.

The bindings around her wrists are bloody.  Still bound, she battles on.

She is no milkmaid or shepherdess.  She wears the clothes of a foreign people but the tunic must be a man’s.  The leg wrappings as well.  Surely, not even the strange tribes to the east would dress their women thus.

This woman – smaller than most of my countrymen’s daughters – moves like a warrior.  The sight of her sends a jolt through me that could be lust but is mostly awe.  With one glance, I am falling into admiration.

I watch as she is herded into the fortress, toward the great hall of our king.  With the road clear, I startle the pony into a trot with a sharp call.  There is little time to waste if I want Káto to speak for me after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thor was the god called upon by warriors (in Norse culture). So when Peeta says he cannot call upon Thor, it's actually a class distinction of a sort. Peeta is not - and will never be - a man with the kind of qualities that a god like Thor would recognize. So, Peeta's situation is rather emasculating.


	3. Serving Ale

(Peeta)

 

I leave the cattle and the cart along with its load of winter barley at the granary and hurry toward the hall of King Harald.  My steps are purposeful and as quick as I dare given my aching leg.

Slipping through the entrance of the great longhouse, I spot Már, the leader of the raiding expedition, and I frown as I count his oarsmen.  Káto had been right.  Few have returned and with so little plunder, the king will not be pleased.

“You call this tribute?” our king growls softly at Már.

I move a bit clumsily through the shadows along the smoke-stained walls and seek out Káto.  Although I have been a free man for three summers, I dare not speak at these meetings when the men return on the king’s ships to present their plunder.  I catch Káto’s eye and I do not hide my thoughts from him.  I have no reason to.  I trust him.  I know Káto will speak for me.

He always has.

I nod toward the girl with the bloody bindings and gesture meaningfully, running a loosely fisted hand from my right ear to my navel.  _The one with the long braid over her shoulder,_ I want to say, wincing at my lack of subtlety.  I give him a beseeching look.

He follows my line of sight, spies her, and frowns in confusion.  He thinks I am mad.  He can see what I see: she will be trouble.  As my former master, he is not obligated to trade his fine cattle for her.  He owes me nothing.  But I know he will do this because I have never asked for favors.  I work the fields, haul the manure, dig the furrows.  I patch the roof, do the washing, herd the sheep, look after the pigs and goats.  I have never asked for anything in return.

A long moment passes and Káto nods once: she will be a member of his household by this evening.  That will not keep her safe, but it is a start.

I hold my breath as the spoils are divided.  The girl with gore in her hair and blood-stained bindings is shoved toward Harald’s head kitchen slave, Dalla.  I breathe more easily and my reasons are twofold.  First, Dalla’s kindness is legendary among those of us who are – or had once been – in the service of Harald.  And second, none of Már’s oarsmen had rushed to claim such a wiry, dark creature, not even to warm his bed.  Under Dalla’s direction, the other women converge on the new arrival and make a discreet exit.  She will be safe enough at the meal-fire today until Káto can secure her purchase.

Although I want nothing more than to linger and keep watch, I return to the cart and the cattle.  I know my duty and it is, first and foremost, to the protection of Harald’s tribute.

I do not see her again until much later in the evening.  Another crew – none other than Finnr’s – has just arrived and the hall is filled to bursting.  Countless cups of ale have been drained into bellies that quake with laughter at raunchy humor.  It is not an atmosphere that would normally make me anxious.  Yes, there is the occasional quarrel, but disputes are resolved quickly.  It’s all good fun for the men, free-born women, and experienced slave girls.

I occupy a spot on the bench which lines the wall and leave my cup untouched until the feasting has subsided into bawdy jokes and song.  That is when I finally see her.

I tense, watching apprehensively as she makes the rounds with the wooden pitcher of ale.  She has been bathed and dressed in a simple gown and undyed smock.  She seems to be little more than a girl, as yet unblossomed into womanhood.

But when I catch sight of her in the firelight I cannot deny that she _is_ a woman grown.  Her lithe grace and fine form prove this to be true despite her small stature.  She turns to serve a cup thrust in her direction and I gasp.  I had not seen the _other_ side of her face, the one that is unbeaten.  I had not known her skin would look so soft, that the shade of it would be dusky.   I had not realized that her eyes would flash, fiery and quick.  Surely that is a look matched only by her wits and capable hands.

It is a look that will earn her trouble in abundance.

Már reaches out and collects the end of her braid, yanking her closer to him.  “Don’t spill now!” he chides her as he reels her in, thrusting out his cup forward in demand for another serving.

I discover that a full cup comes in handy for circumstances such as these.  I stand, stumble over as drunkenly as I can manage, and splash Már across the lap with the contents.

It works well as a distraction even if it earns me a hard push and a round of angry, bellowed insults.  Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse Káto pushing the girl away, giving her a shove in the direction of the cooking hearth.

Giddy with relief, I laugh along with the free-born men, showily pulling up my tunic.  “Shall I wipe it up for you, Már?” I slur.

He trips me and I crash to the floor as the men from his crew roar with laughter.  They’ve all seen me fall on my ass at feasts.  I’ve developed something of a talent at it.  They watch my wind-milling arms instead of the retreating slave girl.

She is still safe.

I lurch to my feet, grinning.

“Keep your shirt on, Peeta!” Már guffaws, cuffing me like he used to do when we were younger.  He slaps me on the back hard enough to send me sprawling into Finnr, who clearly remembers me from his days as my half-brother’s boyhood rival.  He tousles my hair before sending me off to fetch another ale-bearing serving girl.

I flush at being treated like a favored dog, but I do not complain.  I grab the excuse with both hands and stagger off toward the far end of the longhouse.

“What were you thinking?” I hiss at Dalla as soon as I’m close enough.  I do not bother with pretense here.  She is akin to a dear aunt and she would see through my lies like a soothsayer reads the signs.

She purses her lips and beetles her brows in question.  I do not often lose my temper; she is surprised.  I cut her off with a nod in the direction of the slight woman with the long braid.  “Don’t send her out there into _that!”_

“I didn’t!  I looked up and she was halfway down the room with a pitcher!”

I clench my jaw and spin toward the woman I’m trying to protect… if she doesn’t get herself killed first.  I look between her swollen eye and its uninjured mate.  My breath catches and tangles in my throat at the sight of storm grey.  Hers are eyes that see through to a man’s heart.

Drawing in a shaky breath, I point to her, “You.”  I gesture to the hearth.  “Stay.”  Holding up both hands, I mime pushing her away from the rabble and their roaring laughter.  “Stay.  Here.”  I cannot take the chance that another man will see what I do, want what I do.  She is fierce, dark, and sinewy.  Most men prefer their girls fair, pale, and soft.  But I cannot bear to risk it.

Slowly, she weighs my worth with her gaze.  I have no idea if she understands my words, but eventually she nods.

I hold out a hand for the wooden pitcher.  When she presses it into my grasp, our fingers brush.  I can feel her calluses, the tautness of her skin.  These are not the hands of a woman who weaves or cooks or washes tunics and gowns.

These are a warrior’s hands.

I have to force myself to take my leave.

By the time I’ve dived back into the melee further down the hall, smiling like an intoxicated fool, Már has forgotten about his soggy lap.  Finnr, however, is not as drunk as he seems.  Our gazes meet and he arches a brow at the pitcher I’m carrying.

“Where’s the girl?” he asks quietly.  No one hears his words but me.

“Am I not pretty enough for you?” I answer.  I jest with my tone, but my eyes are hard.  I’m not letting these carousing men maul her.  If Finnr has any ideas about approaching her, he’ll have to get past me first.

“The only one pretty enough for me is my Oddkatla,” he retorts, speaking of his new wife.  He grins and salutes me with his cup.  It is a gesture I recognize.  He is wishing me luck.

My breath leaves me on a hot sigh.  I’ll need all the luck I can get.


	4. A Place to Sleep

(Peeta)

 

Night deepens.  Cups lighten.  Bellies fill.  Laughter bounces from one oaken wall to the other.  Blushing serving girls are snared by rowdy oarsmen who have been a fortnight away from home, hearth, and wife.  There is no end to the festivities in sight.

Now is my chance.

I perform an aimless, wandering exit from the hall’s main doors and circle around in the darkness to the back.  Firelight and mouth-watering aromas spill out of the open doorway.  My approach is now steady and unhurried.  I had not seen the woman with the long, single plait of dark hair in the main hall since telling her to remain in the kitchen.  She must have taken my instruction to heart and stayed near the meal-fire.

Standing on the threshold, I smile at Dalla.  She and a few older women have already begun to brew more ale as it is far too noisy for sleep to be a possibility.  I scan the open space and find the object of my search sitting beside the hearth, staring into the flames, her shoulders drooping with exhaustion.

“Hey,” I whisper.

She startles and I try not to grin in reply to her glare.

Pointing to myself, I say, “Peeta.”  Her expression softens into a befuddled frown so I repeat myself twice more before gesturing to her.  “How are you called?”

She gestures to herself.

I nod.

“Katniss.”

I smile.  “Katniss.”  Her name is as Norse as mine is.  That is to say, not at all.  My mother may have loved me more than her own life, but she’d cursed me with a name no Northman would respect.  I’d long ago made peace with it.  I rather like that Katniss and I have this in common.  I hold out a hand, beckoning her to follow me.  “Come with me.”

The distrust is back so fast I wonder if our brief, civil exchange had been a mere vision of my hopeful mind.

But, then again, why should she trust me?  I haven’t given her a reason to and I have no claim on her.

I wait beside the door, hand outstretched in her direction.  I am patient.  She surveys the kitchen, seeking a cue from the older women working nearby.  Dalla meets her seeking gaze and nods happily in my direction.

“Off with you, now.  Peeta is Káto’s man.  He’ll see to your rest.”

Her words reassure me for they are proof that Káto’s ownership of her is known by the people of this house.  It is another layer of protection between her and the rabble of men who happily indulge in the king’s serving women.

Katniss does not seem reassured, however.  Our words are foreign and meaningless to her, but Dalla’s kind tone is universal.  Still, Katniss hesitates.

Dalla gives her a wry smile and nods toward the hall just as a burst of voices and laughter erupts from the gathering of men.  She rolls her eyes.  “They won’t be settling down until near dawn.”

I wait for Katniss to look concerned at the prospect of having to haul ale pitchers and deal with the men again.  She doesn’t.  I think of the bloody ropes that had been wound around her wrists.  She has the courage to fight and the persistence to ignore her own pain.  Of course she does not fear a few dozen drunken Northmen.  Hah.  Of course not.

“Off with you.  Go with Peeta, sweet.”  Dalla shoos Katniss toward me and then turns back to her work.

I wait on the threshold, palm up and hand open.  Katniss is slow to turn and she eyes me suspiciously, considering Dalla’s encouragement. 

Patience will not further my venture.  That much is clear.  I reach for a nearby length of rope and toss it to her.  She catches it deftly.  Her stare becomes even more wary.  I know how slaves are treated.  I have felt the chafe of rope around my neck before and I have borne the weight of the leather collar.  I do not want those things for her although Káto will have to insist upon one or the other come morning, but for tonight – one night – I can give her a reprieve.

Dalla hisses at me when I place my own wrists together and hold out my hands in invitation.  I ignore Dalla’s disapproval.  Katniss is no common slave.  I will not treat her as such.  I want her trust, not her obedience.

So I wait, remaining true to my course, and after a very long moment, she stands.  She looks ready to bolt even as she deftly binds my hands together.  I hold her gaze as her bandaged wrists flash in the firelight.

She gives the knot a final – almost brutal – tug and then I step backward, inclining my head for her to follow.  Braced for flight, she does.  I guide her through the settlement to the granary.  At the foot of the ladder leading above, I linger long enough to tell her, “You can rest up there.  No one will bother you.  Not even me.”

And then I find myself a seat.

She stares at me for a long moment.  I can sense her curiosity.  I know I’m not like the other men.  Never have been, never will be.  That is not my destiny.  I’ll never walk the warrior’s path or die with honor in battle.  Although something tells me that this woman – Katniss – knows a thing or two about that kind of life.  She has that brand of strength.  I can sense it.  Where other girls would adapt to a life of servitude like Dalla has, Katniss will never stop fighting.  I smile.

“Good night, Katniss,” I bid her as she continues to stand with one hand on the ladder, gaping at me.

The bindings on my hands are tight, but I don’t ask her to release me.  I close my eyes.

I think I hear a whisper – some foreign words and my name – and then the creak of the ladder as she moves to the loft.

I smile and a warmth steals over me in the darkness.  Hope is what I’m feeling, I slowly realize.  Hope that I can keep her alive and safe.


	5. Death Wish

(Peeta)

 

I wake to the sound of shouts and running footsteps, to the sight of flames licking up into the sky.  The stables are aflame and the soldiers are roused.

Trelleborg is under attack.

I struggle to my feet, forgetting that my hands are bound and nearly tumbling onto a pile of unopened grain sacks before I catch myself.  I gape at the chaos in the open yard, shocked and uncertain.  Men with torches held aloft race between the buildings, starting fires in the thatch.

They are headed this way.

My hands are tied and I have no weapon, but I cannot let them burn down the king’s granary.

I move to the doorway.  A body leaps into the shadows beside me.  I startle even as Katniss’ small hands grab mine.

A flash in the dancing firelight—

A tug at my bindings—

The rope falls to the ground in pieces.

She has a knife.

Where did she ever get a _knife?_

This is not the time to ask.  Two men are hurrying in our direction.  It is now or never.

As the first comes within range, reaches out to touch the flames of the torch to the oak supports, I tackle him to the ground.  I am strong and the fight is brief.  Too brief.  With three blows to the head, the man goes limp beneath me, but his companion should have thrust a knife or even his own torch into my back.

When I look up, I understand why he hadn’t.

He is dead.  Stabbed in the belly and throat slit.  Katniss’ hands and smock are covered in blood.

Oh, no.  No, this is not good.

I can hear more footsteps, a shout I recognize – Már is coming.

I pluck my opponent’s fallen knife up off of the ground and scramble over to Katniss.  “Drop the knife,” I rasp frantically, gesturing with my aching hand.  I can’t remember the last time I’d hit anyone.  It hurts worse than I’d expected.

She looks from the bloody blade to herself and she shakes her head even as she lets it go.  I scoop it up and toss it far off into the night.  Someone else will find it and return it to its owner.  I hurriedly coat my hands and the strange knife in the dead man’s blood.  Katniss hovers beside me, unmoving.

Why she had not left me to deal with the invaders alone, I do not know.  She could have left me to die, two against one, but she hadn’t.  I cannot leave her to her punishment.

“Katniss,” I say softly, urgently.  We have only a moment before they turn the corner and see her.

Surprisingly, she turns toward the oncoming warriors, tilts her chin up, and proudly squares her shoulders.  I understand now why she hadn’t fled.  I know now why she seems so eager to accept the consequences of her actions.

She longs for death.

“No.”  I shake my head.  “I can’t let you do this.”  I lunge for her, wrapping her up in my arms and pinning her hands between her shoulders and mine.  The blood on her clothes smears and soaks into mine.

Thank the gods I’m a freed man and had clearly been defending King Harald’s property.

I reach up and push her blood-splattered face down against my shoulder.  “Weep,” I hiss, rubbing my other hand in small, comforting circles against her back.

“Peeta!” Már shouts.

Már and several of his oarsmen lope nearer, no longer smiling drunkenly.  Now they are splattered with blood and grasping knives and axes.  Their eyes are clear.  I have no choice but to beckon them over with a nod.

Katniss stands stiffly in my embrace.  She tries to rear back, to lift her face from my shoulder, but I hold her fast.  If we break apart now, the armed men will get a good look at her.  They will see that the blood on her smock is more plentiful than that on my tunic.

We must wait.

“Well,” Már says, glancing from my bloody hands to the men at our feet as he jogs to a halt.  “Looks like you’ve enjoyed yourself.”  He smirks at the girl in my arms.

“Busy night,” I agree.  With a brief gesture at the man I’d bludgeoned with my fists, I warn him, “That one might still be breathing.”

“Poor wretch if he is.”

As Már and the three men that had accompanied him turn their attention to the intruders, I guide Katniss away from the scene.  “The stables,” I announce for the benefit of the men from whom we are escaping.  My grasp on her upper arm must be painful, but she says nothing as I drag her behind a longhouse.  Deep in the shadows, I pull her smock off of her, wad it up under my arm, and then haul her over to the burning stables.  I toss the garment into the flames, grab a bucket and thrust it at her chest.

“Water,” I tell her, pointing to the nearby well around which a number of women have gathered and are working with speed and efficiency.

I can see that she’s still angry, but she doesn’t fight me.  When she sprints toward the women, I race over to assist the men with getting the panicking animals free.  By dawn, the stables are smoldering in silence and the livestock are safely tethered along the longhouses.  I shuffle over to Katniss knowing I’m covered in sweat-streaked soot.  Her efforts from the night before have left smudges of dirt and ash on her face, completely concealing what remains of the dead man’s blood in dust.  Thank the gods.  I feel the iron ring that has been choking my heart all night finally snap and fall away.

I speak her name and she looks up with a sigh.  Irritation shimmers in her clear eye and twists her lips, but she is too exhausted to feel more.

My hands burn to reach for her and hold her against me again, but I resist.  Instead, I offer her a smile, a bow, and a word of thanks.

She blinks at me, surprised.  I enjoy her befuddlement more than I probably should.  Relief has made me giddy.

“Here you are!”

I look up and transfer my grin to Káto.  He strides over and smacks me on the shoulder playfully.  “Are you injured?”

I glance down at the bloodstains on my clothes and my bruised fist.  My leg aches but that is nothing new.  “No more than you,” I answer, examining the gore on his chest and arms.

“Well, Kolfrosta would have my head otherwise.”

I chuckle.  That she would.

“Who were they?” I ask.

“Sweyn’s men.  Nice of him to leave his ship moored in our bay, wasn’t it?”

I sigh.  Clearly, Harald’s brother, the king across the sea, has still not accepted the offered hand of friendship.  But with the people’s favor slowly trickling in Harald’s direction, Sweyn does have cause for concern.  If he is not very careful, Harald will be given the crown to his brother’s kingdom.

“Are we staying to help rebuild?” I ask, already wondering how I’ll hide Katniss for however many nights we will remain in the ring fort.

Káto shakes his head.  “Már has been tasked with it.  To compensate for the poor haul.  We’ll leave after the day-meal.”  He looks over at his new slave.  “Are you _sure_ you want this one, Peeta?”

“Yes.”

He sighs.  “Well, what’s her name then?”

“Katniss,” I tell him softly.  Too softly and with too much reverence.  Her eyelashes flicker, recognizing that I’m speaking about her.  Her hands fist… perhaps in response to my tender whisper.

Káto reads into my tone what I do not say.  He is disappointed, yes, but he does not argue.  Looking up at the sky – perhaps seeking guidance from Odin – he warns me, “If you wish to wed her—”

“I know.”  I know he would rather I wed a milkmaid.  At least then his family might gain something through the alliance.  There is nothing to be gained from freeing a slave and marrying her.  It is a waste of an opportunity, but there is something about Katniss.  I do not believe a union with her would be a waste.

Káto does not share my faith or my instincts in these matters, but he does humor me.  Within limits.  He will not make it easy for me to purchase her freedom: he will want to know her full worth beforehand.  And, even then, he might arrange for another bride for me.

I sigh but subside.  We have plenty of time to argue about it, he and I.

Káto agrees.  “In the meantime, she’ll need a collar.”

I wince.

He nods once, acknowledging my distaste for the idea.  “It is my duty.  I’ll handle it.  Just get cleaned up and ready the cart for our return.”

He turns toward Katniss and beckons her to follow.  I’m startled when she glances at me as if seeking reassurance.  “It’s all right.  Go with him.”  I lower my head, hoping she understands that I have no authority against Káto.  This is my place as his freed man and bastard half-brother.   Everyone knows it.

And now Katniss does, too.

When I look up, she is striding in his wake, back straight and chin lifted.  _What thoughts dance in her head now,_ I wonder.  And, thinking of her intention earlier to be caught splattered in gore and clutching a stolen knife, I wonder what demons lurk in her heart.


	6. The Collar

(Peeta)

 

I was a fool to think Katniss would quietly submit to the collar.  An absolute fool.

Standing just beneath the eaves of the leather smith’s covered workshop, I can feel her rage radiate like sunlight in scorching waves.

My hands fist.  Fury burns in my belly.  I do not want this humiliation for her, but I do not have enough coins saved to pay for her freedom.  It will take time.  Káto is generous, but he is also cautious.  Much like his wife.  He would argue that I have much to learn from both of them: I am too kind, too gentle, too hopeful.

Perhaps they are right.  My mangled left leg has kept me separate from a warrior’s life.  I am unhardened by killing.  Káto says I am as innocent as a babe.

Katniss is not.  And although I do not hear my name shouted out, I feel her call to me nonetheless.

I answer.

Brushing past Káto, I take a seat beside her on the workbench and grasp her hand.  I do not wince when her fingers curl tightly around mine, bending the bones at the knuckles.  Her ragged nails break the skin.  Is this a sign of her trust or is she punishing me?  I do not know.

Nor do I regret how quickly I’d worked to ready the cart for our return.  Every moment I’d spent distant from her had weighed heavier and heavier upon me until I’d abandoned the sleepy pony and loped across the fort, dodging men in the midst of repair work to see for myself that she was all right.

But she is not all right.

I want to tell her that this is only temporary, that whatever she is imagining regarding her fate is far worse than it will truly be.  I want to tell her that I will look after her.  She is a creature of uncommon bravery and strength.  The collar is a crime against her spirit.

When it is fixed upon her slender neck, I step back and Káto lifts her to her feet by her narrow shoulders.

“You are my slave,” he tells her firmly, hooking his finger around the collar.  As the sunlight kisses it, I recognize the scratchings and scuff marks upon it.  This had been my collar once.  I can feel its weight again around my neck even though I have not worn it for years.  Where had Káto found it?

“Come,” he instructs, gesturing for her to follow.

I walk beside her as an equal, feeling her stare upon me.  I flinch when I realize that I am limping heavily.  Summoning my courage, I meet her gaze.  It is not my leg which has drawn her attention; she looks between Káto and me, confused.  I cannot explain now, but I resolve to do so as soon as I can.  I want her to understand as badly as she wants an explanation.

We eat our day-meal of porridge, boiled beef and vegetables.  Káto speaks with our father while I wait outside the hall with Katniss.

I lean back against the oak posts and sigh, remembering our parting after the Thing.  I had accompanied Káto, as usual, and listened as our father had passed messages to each of us.  Most of his words had been for his eldest son, but he had spared a few for me.  Kind words that I had not earned.

My chin drops and my jaw clenches.  What kind of son cannot meet his own father’s gaze?  To do so would be to invite retribution from his ever-vengeful wife, and I will not do that.  So I’d stood beside the door as our father had looked at Káto but spoken to me.  That is the only way I can be his son and he my father.  I do my best not to shame him.  If my leg were whole, perhaps things would be different.  If I could fight, if I were worthy of Thor’s gifts…

But I am not.  The latter years of my childhood, the time when most boys are becoming men day by day as their fathers teach them to fight, I had sat beside the meal-fire, weaving, grinding grain, baking rye bread, and boiling barley for porridge as my wounds had sealed over and the twisted flesh had locked uselessly in place.

As if Katniss can read my thoughts, she shifts and gestures to my left leg.  The question she asks me is a mess of sounds, but her eyes are confrontational in their curiosity.

“It’s fine.  Healed,” I tell her.

She continues staring at me until I sigh, bend, and pull the cuff of my trouser up, baring my ankle.  The damage is not nearly as bad there, but it is still terrible.  She does not wince when she sees the scars and unnatural ropes of skin-sealed sinew, but she understands now why I am lame, why I do not carry an ax or a shield.

And she does not pity me.  In fact, something like respect flashes briefly in her expression in the silvery surface of her ash-grey eyes.

I think of that look with every step we take along the road back to Káto’s farmstead.

“Már said your knife work has improved,” Káto suddenly declares, his voice seeming to echo on the empty road.

I startle.  “Did he?”  To avoid Káto’s thoughtful glare, I shove at the cart even though it is not wedged in a rut.  “Was I so poor at it before?” I attempt to deflect.

Káto snorts mockingly.  “Do you not remember almost slicing your hand off last winter when you offered to help Kolfrosta butcher that steer?”

I wisely say nothing.

“Who killed that man at the granary?”

I could lie.  My lies are a finer weave than the wool my mother once taught me to craft upon a loom, but I cannot lie to my own brother, to the man who paid my freedom price to the king and brought me to his farmstead for a fresh start away from the constant reminder of my deficiencies.  Away from the warriors and the great hall, I can simply do what needs to be done.  No one cares if I limp when the weather is damp and rainy or I can’t sleep when it is cold and the wind is blowing.  No one at Káto’s farmstead cares that I can’t run with a shield in one hand and an ax in the other.  I can wrestle.  I can throw a spear so long as I am standing still.  Kolfrosta has deemed me worth keeping.  She has made me earn it, but what’s more she has given me the _chance_ to earn it.

I will always be grateful to her for that.

Just as I will always be indebted to my brother for removing my slave collar.

“Peeta?” he presses and I sigh in defeat.

“Katniss,” I answer in a low, measured tone, “could have left me to face the both of them, but she didn’t.”  I add, “A milkmaid would have.”

Káto doesn’t refute that.

I glance across the cart to where Katniss is watching me back, ever-wary of what we say about her in words she cannot understand.  “I probably owe her my life.”  The smile I give her feels soft upon my lips and it widens when her tension eases a bit.  There is warmth in her heart – I’m sure of it – if only I could coax it forth.

“She’s trouble,” Káto sighs.

 _“My_ trouble?” I confirm.

He barks out a laugh.  “Yes.  All yours.”

Now I’m smiling widely.  Looking across the cart again, I announce happily, “You and I – Katniss and Peeta – will be great friends.  You will see.”

Káto guffaws at my silly promise and Katniss scowls, but I can see her lips twitching as she tries to hold back her answering smile.


	7. Counting Years

(Peeta)

 

We stop an hour before nightfall and make camp.  The night-meal consists of smoked pork and barley flatbread that had been strung on a cord.  Katniss seems hesitant to take a full portion so I press half of mine into her hands before serving myself a bit more from each.  Káto watches us with a wide smile.

“Don’t think that stupid, lovesick grin of yours is going to be enough to win over a woman like her,” he warns me as he stands and brushes his greasy fingers against his trouser legs.  “You’ll want that milkmaid yet.”

Katniss’ gaze flickers in his direction but I ignore him.

He rummages in the back of the cart, taking one sheep fleece for himself and tossing the second at us.  My arm shoots out and grabs it before it bounces off of my shoulder and into the small fire.

“Good night, _Peeta and Katniss,”_ he drawls obnoxiously before bedding down for the night.

The questioning look Katniss sends in my direction isn’t lost on me, but I have no way of explaining exactly what our friendly argument is about.  Instead, I think of the other message I really want to tell her.  I drape the fleece around her shoulders and roll away to reach for a stick of kindling.  In the patch of bare dirt between us, I begin scratching an approximation of an apple blossom, then a blazing sun, then a slightly-curled oak leaf, then a cloud with puffs of falling snow.  All four are arranged together in a cluster.  I point to the first and whisper, “This is spring.”

Katniss watches as I gesture around us generally, trying to convey which season we are in currently.

“And soon, summer.”  I point to the next drawing and pretend to wipe my own not-overheated brow.  I grin crookedly at her soft snort.

“The autumn and winter.”  I shiver dramatically and, collecting the corner of the fleece, wrap it around my head so I look like an old woman.

Katniss’ teeth gleam momentarily in the darkness.  That had nearly been a laugh.  I’m sure of it.

“One year,” I tell her simply, gesturing from the apple blossom to the sun to the crumpled leaf to the snow storm.  “Peeta,” I continue, pointing to myself and then stabbing the tip of the stick into the ground in early autumn.  Then I draw a circle around the seasons once, twice, three times… I keep counting until I get to seventeen and stop at mid spring.  Now.

I pass the stick to Katniss and, using a tuft of grass, erase the spiral I’d sketched out.  “Katniss?”

For a moment, she just looks at me and I wonder if I hadn’t been clear after all.  But then she places the stick firmly in winter and begins her spiral.  The eighteenth pass ends in the middle of spring.

I grin.  She’s older than me by three seasons.  I find this amusing since I’m so much bigger than she is even though I know that has nothing to do with it.

I point to myself.  “Peeta, seventeen.”

“Seventeen,” she repeats.

“Katniss.  Eighteen.”

“Eighteen,” she declares with a smirk.  I like that smirk.  Very much.  So much that I’m tempted to retire for the night here and now and just share smiles until sleep overtakes us.  But no.  No, I will stay the course that I’ve set.

I brush away the spiral for a second time and begin again, starting in early autumn and spiraling.  This time Katniss counts under her breath in my language and I gently correct her when it is needful.

I stop at fourteen.

“Peeta,” I say again, pointing to myself, then I gesture to her collar before miming having it around my own neck.  She jerks backward slightly, certain she has misunderstood.  “Fourteen,” I tell her, making circle motions with the stick over my drawing of the seasons.  “Fourteen years.  I wore the collar.”

Her eyes narrow, the right one more so than the left, which is still swollen.

I point to my half-brother.  “Káto.”

She nods.  She knows his name.

“Káto bought my freedom,” I tell her.  She watches as I mime removing the collar from around my throat.  Her eyes are wide.  With an accomplished smile, I go back to drawing and counting: “Fifteen… sixteen… seventeen.  Three years of freedom.”

Her gaze turns inward and I wonder what she’s thinking.  There is a sliver of hope in her expression, but then it is squashed by frustration and something darker.  Something frantic and dreadful.  I hadn’t meant to give her more unanswerable questions.  Her slender fingers dance over the worn leather encircling her neck and, despite the fleece around her shoulders, she shivers.

In an instant, I’m on my feet and rummaging around in the back of the cart.

“Here,” I say returning to her and holding out a bundle of cloth.

She takes it from my hands and our fingers brush for a second time in passing.  I grit my teeth against the rush of heat that pulses through me.  When I sit back down next to her, I take care to put an extra hand’s width between us.

Katniss unrolls the parcel of fabric and smiles at the sight of her old tunic and leggings.  She scoots away another few hand-widths and gives me a look.  I turn my back and listen as she slides the clothing on.  She clears her throat when she’s done and I smile at the sight of the tunic over her gown.  It’s well-made.  Better quality than I’d thought the tribes to the east could make.  Her braid dangles down her back and I have to fist my hands to keep from pulling it gently over her shoulder.

Even through the bruises and slight swelling around her left eye and her chin, I can see how incomparably beautiful she is.

The night wind slaps me in the face just as I realize how very inappropriate and impossible my affections are.  I am no prize, not for someone like her.  Intelligent, capable, dangerous, exquisite.  I am only the bastard son of a slave with a boar-mangled left leg.

Warmth settles over my shoulders, pulling me from the darkness of my thoughts and I gawp at Katniss.  She is sitting closely beside me, her hip nudging my hand and her shoulder bumping my arm as she shares the fleece between us.

My smile must be wider than the horizon.

She snorts softly with humor and rolls her eyes at me.  Yes, my reaction to this first overture of friendship might be a little enthusiastic, but it’s worth it.  Very worth it.


	8. The Words of Family

(Peeta)

 

Kolfrosta is not pleased.

I put out a hand and take half a step in front of Katniss.  I don’t even think about it.  Kolfrosta glares at me, holding her two young daughters close as they squeal and struggle to get to their father.  It doesn’t help my situation that Katniss’ presence here really is a direct result of my actions: I’d wanted her.  I’d protected her.  I’d even kept her warm last night.  Although we’d started out lying side by side with the fleece wrapped lengthwise around our shoulders, I’d awoken with Katniss’ head pillowed on my chest and my arms wrapped around her.

Káto had then decided to welcome the morn by laughing uproariously, startling Katniss awake.  I’d quickly dropped my arms, wide-eyed with panic.  I don’t think I’ve ever blushed that hotly before in my life.

Wonderful.  Just one more way in which I’m a failure.  A man does not turn bright red when a woman snuggles up to him in her sleep.  Káto is never going to let me forget that, but he does not abandon me to his wife’s ire.

“Kolfrosta, my sweet one—”

I have to swallow back a bark of laughter.  Saying Kolfrosta is sweet is like saying the sea is welcoming.

“This is not a milkmaid, Káto,” she interjects sharply.

“No, she isn’t.  But she’s Peeta’s choice and I’ll tell you another thing that is true…”  Káto leans in to confide what I suspect is an account of the attack back at Trelleborg and the fallen strangers beside the granary.  He spills the words directly into his fierce wife’s ear so I can’t be sure what he tells her, but by the flicker of surprise on her face, he must have told her that I owe Katniss my wellbeing at the very least.

Sensing that the discussion is about her, Katniss steps around me, placing a hand on my arm to keep me from trying to block her path.  She lifts her chin and holds still for Kolfrosta’s scrutiny.

Amazingly, Kolfrosta finds this display somehow favorable.  “A foreign slave with a backbone.”  She laughs and finally lets the girls clamor into their father’s waiting arms.  “Peeta, I should not be surprised.”

“We’ll bed down in the stables with the others if you’d rather not have her in the house,” I offer awkwardly.

She gives me a knowing grin.  “How generous of you.  But why not make your bed in the granary _here?_   You’ll have more privacy.”

I’m blushing again.  By the gods, what is wrong with me?

Completely at a loss, I turn toward the cart and begin unloading the provisions we’d traded the remainder of our goods for: cured fish, seaweed, salt, dried whale flesh, oil…

I nod for Katniss to see to the pony as I haul the first load into the longhouse, maneuvering adroitly around the jostling family reunion.  Old Sigga looks up from the meal-fire with a flap-lipped smile.  I greet her quietly as I shelve, hang, and store the goods in their usual places.

“Bring back a milkmaid, did you?” she croaks.  “You’ve the look of a newly married man about you.”

“Um, no.  No.”  I am not married and Katniss is _not_ a milkmaid.

“Hm… a shepherdess show you her flock, then?”

I am certain this is the third-worst day of my life.  “Sigga…”

She leans around me and squints out into the yard.  Although her eyesight is poor, she can just make out the unfamiliar form of the woman unhitching the pony.  “Well, go out there and help her wrestle that useless creature into the stable so I can meet your woman.”

It’s easier to just do what she says.

Katniss actually has a way with the cantankerous, lazy beast so I fuss with the cart as I direct her to the water trough and stable.  Her voice is a soft, melodic murmur as she guides the pony away and his furry, dark ears are not the only ones perked.  I wonder if she sings.

When we return to the longhouse, Sigga is sitting outside watching the girls play with the colorful ribbons their father had brought home just for them.  I take a seat next to her, stretching out my left leg with a heartfelt sigh.  I’m glad we only make the trip to Trelleborg a few times a year: once for the Thing, once mid spring, twice in summer, and twice in autumn.  Next will be Darius’ turn to accompany Káto, I think.  It’s probably best that I stay behind.  Otherwise Káto will worry that I’ll find more trouble.

I smirk.

Katniss lowers herself onto the bench beside me and I introduce her to Sigga.

I say to Kolfrosta’s old maid, “Katniss doesn’t speak our language yet, but she’s very quick.”

Sigga leans around me.  “Katniss, you’ll be a fine woman for our Peeta, won’t you?”  She waves a gnarled hand between us and bumps her fingers against her fist meaningfully.

I groan, burying my head in my hands in denial.  Katniss will kill me and dispose of my body before nightfall for sure.  But, to my surprise, she snorts with humor.  I peek at her from between my fingers and chuckle at her haughty expression and twitching lips.  She glances away from my flushed face with a roll of her eyes.

“Really, Sigga,” I mutter.  “Stop.  Don’t undo the progress I’ve made thus far.”

“Then don’t drag your feet!”

I’ve just opened my mouth to reply when a high-pitched moan echoes out from within the longhouse at our backs.

“The next one will be a boy, mark my words,” Sigga volunteers.

I clear my throat.  “Um, Katniss.  Will you meet the girls?”

She tilts her head to the side.  The slight flush to her cheeks is the only indication that she knows precisely why we’re all sitting outside on this bench.  I hurriedly call Káto’s daughters over.

“This is our little she-bear, Birga,” I begin, giving Káto’s eldest child a poke in the ribs to make her giggle and squirm.  “Birga,” I repeat, “say good evening to my friend, Katniss.”

“Uncle Peeta,” Birga whispers, leaning up to speak in my ear.

“Yes, cub?”

“Her face is beaten.”

“Yes, it is.  Will you give her a kiss upon it?  It will make her feel better.”

“All right.”

I scoop Káto’s youngest up onto my lap as Birga skips two steps over, leans up on Katniss’ knees, and presses a quick kiss to her yellow-green cheek.

For a moment, Katniss’ entire being is frozen with surprise, but then a slow smile curves her lips.  Her whispered words must be ones of thanks, but no one here can understand them.  “Thank you,” I instruct Katniss, repeating the words for her benefit.

“Thank you… Birga,” she says quietly to the little girl.

Birga, looking quite proud of herself, holds onto her ribbons and twirls happily.  “You are welcome, Katniss!”

We three chuckle at her and the toddler in my lap squeals, joining in the festivities.

“And this,” I continue, “is Hrefna.  Our mighty raven.”  I bounce her on my knee once more, chuffing out her name and she claps her hands.  “Hrefna-Hrefna-Hrefna!” I chant in time with each bounce.

The sound of Katniss’ amused exhalations draws my gaze and I find myself smiling into her soft, grey eyes.  I remember seeing them as hard as iron and twice as cold, but now they are warm, unguarded.  With this one look, I am caught.  I know I ought to call upon the gods to save me from her spell, but I cannot bear the thought of turning away anything she offers me.  Even if it is magic of the most devious kind, I will gladly take it as I would any gift freely given.

When Hrefna wiggles with boredom, I let her slide down off my knee and she chases after her sister, grabbing for the pretty ribbons dancing in the air.  Katniss follows their game in silence, sadness pulling at her brows.  It suddenly occurs to me that Katniss is old enough to be wed.  Perhaps even a mother herself.

Heart pounding and throat tight, I scoop a stick up off the ground and nudge her gently to bring her attention to my next attempt at communication.  I draw a pair of figures in the dirt.  “Káto.  Kolfrosta,” I say of the first two.  “Husband and wife.”

I wait while Katniss repeats the words.  Then I sketch two smaller figures.  “Birga.  Hrefna.  Children.”

Drawing in a steadying breath, I lean over and draw a single figure in the dirt.  “Katniss,” I say, pointing to the figure… and then I offer her the stick so she can complete the picture.

She takes it from me and my heart sinks as she begins to draw.  So she does have a husband and child.  Oh, how cruel are the gods to take her from them… and to tempt me with her.

I blink back tears as I stare at the three figures in the dirt just in front of her feet.  But then she does something unexpected.  She reaches over to my drawing and encircles Birga and Hrefna with a single line.  “Children,” she murmurs.  Then she draws a circle around the figure of herself and the smaller one beside it.  “Katniss.  Primrose.”

Oh.  Oh!  “Sisters?” I check.

She blinks at me.  Of course she doesn’t understand.  I hold my hand out for the stick and I spend the remaining daylight teaching her all the words for family members until she can tell me with confidence that she has a father and a younger sister.

No husband.

My smile feels wider than the distance between here and Harald’s furthest ring fort.

And then I remember who she has been forced to leave behind.  Will she ever see her father and sister again?  Likely not.

It’s not fair.

“Peeta?” she asks.  “Peeta family?”

Her friendly question thrills me down to my toes and jars me from my sudden melancholy.  I quickly draw myself and Káto, then our father, Káto’s mother and mine.  She frowns at me and taps her collar before gesturing to my bare neck.  Ah.  She wishes to know how I’d become a slave.  I draw an approximation of a collar around my mother’s throat.

Her expression smooths with understanding, and then her brow wrinkles with frustration.  I can see the question in her eyes although I cannot catch its meaning.  I hold out the stick.  She quickly draws two small figures – babes, perhaps – and gives one a collar and leaves the other without.

“Mother,” she says, pointing to mine.  “Son?”  At this, she gestures between the children.  Which one, she wants to know.

“Son,” I confirm, pointing to the child with the collar.  “Always.  Be it son or daughter.”  With every other word, I redraw the collar on the child.  I ache to tell Katniss that she need not fear any advances from me.  I would never force the collar on a child.  I glare at the scratching in the dirt until Katniss shifts next to me.

“Uh, Peeta and… Katniss?” she asks delicately, bracing herself for my answer.

I gape at her.

She looks away and whispers uncertainly.  “Um.  Husband and wife?  Brother and sister?”

“No,” I answer, shaking my head.  “No.”  My heart aches at the denial.  Although I have only known her for three short days, I would give everything I possess to build a life with her as my wife.  Unfortunately, everything I own is not enough to remove that collar from her neck.  That is my primary concern before anything else.  It must be.

I reach for her hand and clasp it as two comrades would in greeting.  “Friends,” I tell her.  “Friends.”

She looks down, studying my grasp.  It is firm, but it is not gentle, not that of lovers.  I want to tell her of my plans to buy her freedom, but no.  Small steps, I lecture myself.  Trust begins as a kernel of hope, not a thriving forest.

The tension bleeds from her taut shoulders and I remember to breathe.  She gives me an evaluative look, a slight smile, and a nod.

We are friends.  As beginnings go, I couldn’t have asked for a better one.

Suddenly, the front door bangs open and Káto, bare-chested and sweaty, whoops at his girls.  “Oh, little sweets!” he calls dramatically.  “Save me from your mother!  She is so demanding!”

“Did she make you peel radishes?” Birga asks as she leaps into his outstretched arms.

“She did!” he confirms.  “So many radishes!  I’m so tired!  And hungry!  Are you hungry?”  This he asks Hrefna as he cradles her against his hip and stands.  She nods so vigorously that her dark hair blurs in the firelight from inside.

“These old bones are thankful you don’t make that trip every fortnight,” Sigga grumps, hobbling past him and into the house.  “That damned bench doesn’t agree with me.”

Laughing, Káto steps aside to let her indoors.  I stand, gently pulling Katniss with me.

Looking between us, Káto sighs heavily, feigning disappointment.  “And here I’d thought Kolfrosta and I would have inspired you, Peeta.”

“If you can’t keep your mouth shut, I’ll have Kolfrosta put something in it for you to suck on,” I grumble.

“What are you gonna suck on, papa?  A radish?”

“Birga!” Kolfrosta barks from somewhere inside.

I bite my lip to keep from laughing aloud.  Tears squeeze out of the corners of my eyes.

Káto answers, “A very, _very_ tasty radish, little sweet.”  With a wink, he lets us step over the threshold.


	9. Fishing

(Peeta)

 

Katniss eats her day-meal porridge with efficiency and precision.  I poke and stir at mine, putting off the rest of the day for as long as possible.  I do not want to take Katniss around to the other households of Káto’s farmstead.  They are all good people who have been nothing but kind to me since my arrival here three years ago, but I prefer having Katniss all to myself.  She will meet the other women.  She will make other friends.

I’m not ready.

She sets her bowl aside with a clatter.  “Peeta,” she says and I smile sadly as she gestures to my frown.

I sigh.  I really need to teach her more words.  Opening my hand to her, I ask, “We – Katniss and Peeta – are friends?”

She hesitates long enough to be sure she understands what I’m asking, then she nods and places her palm against mine.  Her small, dark, strong hand squeezes mine briefly.  “Yes.  Friends.”

Kolfrosta snorts at our exchange.  “Eat, Peeta.  Or else Katniss and I will make our visits without you.”

Katniss withdraws her hand but I make no apology for being so embarrassingly emotional.  I am behaving like she is about to be sent out into battle, not shown to the people who work Káto’s land.

“Perhaps we should leave you here to mind the chickens.  You’ll only embarrass her with that woeful look on your face,” Kolfrosta snaps.

“No, it’s just—”

Her huff of irritation shuts my mouth.  “You do not wish to be her master in all things, Peeta?”

I squawk with denial.

Kolfrosta shakes her head and laughs at me.  “You are so sick with love it makes me feel ill.  Stop.  Peeta.  Just… stop.  Be strong for her.  Do not make her nervous.”

She’s right.

I glance over at Katniss and take note of the tension in her shoulders.  Although her expression is blank and her eyes are no more watchful than usual, she is mirroring my own discomfort.  I let out a deep breath.  There is no cause for concern.

Or is there?  I transfer my gaze to Kolfrosta and watch warily as she moves around the meal-fire.  Just now she had reassured me.  That is strange.  Her continuing hospitality toward Katniss is stranger still.  It confounds me.

I had not expected Kolfrosta to stop me from taking a pair of fleeces out to the stables last night where the other slaves sleep.  I’m not sure what it is about Katniss that had won her over.  I wonder if Káto had embellished the tale of the happenings at Harald’s granary.  Surely Kolfrosta is not so fond of me that she would welcome my ally – a strange woman from a strange land who clearly knows how to wield a knife and kill a man – with open arms?

But that appears to be precisely what she has done.

I cannot reconcile it. 

Bedding down across the room from Katniss the night before had been the single most vividly nerve-wracking experience of my life.  I’d been careful to keep my left leg angled away from her as I’d pulled off my trousers and slid into bed.  Birga and Hrefna had already snuggled down in their fleeces and called out their good-nights.  Sigga would be snoring shortly.  Somehow, it had been easier to rest the night before without the span of a room between Katniss and me.  Also, I hadn’t had to remove any clothing.

I hadn’t looked at her as I’d yanked my tunic over my head and pulled the quilt up to my ears.  “Good night, Katniss,” I’d said, turning to face the wall.

Her soft, replying whisper had kept me awake for hours as it’d echoed in my head.  Perhaps I should take my rest out in the stables from now on.

“Peeta!  Are you listening?”

I roll my eyes up and give Kolfrosta a long look.  “No.  Absolutely not.”

“Well, as long as we’re clear on _that,”_ she mocks.

I smirk.

“So, since you obviously don’t have a preference – _or_ an appetite—”

She grabs the mostly-full wooden bowl from my hands and I wince.  Not because I’d been hungry but because I hate disappointing her.

“Let’s go.  Katniss.  Peeta.”  She nods toward the open front door and I file outside with Katniss.

“She makes me feel like I’m a boy of five summers… and a misbehaving one at that,” I grumble, glancing over my shoulder to make sure Kolfrosta hadn’t heard my remark.  She hadn’t.  Katniss and I are alone for the moment.

I suddenly ache to hear Katniss’ laughter, but I know she couldn’t possibly have understood me just now.  Turning toward her, I point to myself and say with what I hope is a charming smile, “Peeta.  Seventeen.  I have seen seventeen summers.  Not five.”

Her teeth flash briefly and I relish her sudden smile.

“All right, children.  March!” my sister-in-law demands, appearing on the threshold and shooing us along in front of her.

A smart retort dances on my tongue, but I think better of it.  This will only take longer if I complain.  At the first of the five smaller households on the farmstead, Kolfrosta introduces Katniss as “Peeta’s woman” and I silently beg the gods to open up the ground at my feet so that it may swallow me whole.  I blush so brightly that it’s guaranteed Katniss will figure out what is being said about us.

Both Galinn and his wife, Unnr, give me an appraising look, glancing at Katniss’ collar with raised brows.  They had expected Káto to find a damned milkmaid for me, I can see it in their eyes.  Katniss is a surprise.

Well, I’ve certainly obliged the gossips.  Why stop now?  When we say our farewells, I place my hand on Katniss’ arm to guide her.  I flush brightly at what I’m sure people will be saying about her, about me, about us.

“I cannot believe this,” I mutter.

Kolfrosta misunderstands.  “Peeta, honestly,” she huffs as we move on to the next home.  “How else do I explain a new slave woman living under my roof?”

“Why is she living under your roof in the first place?” I dare to ask.

“Because you’re there and she’s with you.  Or should I be letting everyone know that she’s… available?”

“No!” I shout at Kolfrosta’s expectant look.  “No.  She… no.  She isn’t.”

“Well then.”  And that’s pretty much the end of it.

After visiting each household and pointing out the other slaves who work in the fields and stables, I acquiesce to my burning need to simply escape the premises by taking Katniss down to the river to fish.  Gossips be damned.  I need a moment with her to just be normal again.

I place the basket near the lapping water and sit down to remove my shoes and roll up my trousers.  Katniss follows my lead, removing her boots and taking the threadbare sash I offer her to tie the skirt of her gown out of the way.

I follow the movements of her bare, shapely calves as she wordlessly collects a spear and wades delicately into the frigid water.  Only when the point of the spear breaks the water with a sharp splash do I realize I’ve been sitting here gaping like a moron.

“You’ve done this before,” I say, smiling as she retrieves the bone-point of the spear from the silt.  Katniss grins with satisfaction at the fish wiggling on the end of it.  She plops it into the basket I hold out to her.  I join her in the river and we wait.  Her successful attack had startled all the nearby fish away.  It will take time for them to return.

She hits more than she misses and I’m sure now that Katniss is a hunter in her homeland.  She scowls into the current, her grey eyes missing nothing.  The hem of her gown is damp and I know what her ankles look like beneath the surface of the water.

I grit my teeth and focus.

With a skilled fisher like Katniss to assist, it takes almost no time at all to fill the basket with enough fish to make the process of scaling, boning, and smoking them worth the effort.  Although Katniss seems willing to keep going, I beckon her back to the shore where we let our legs and feet dry in the warm sunshine and crisp spring breeze.

She doesn’t stare at my leg.

Grinning, I try to teach her a few more words: fish, spear, basket, river…

I am captivated by her mouth, which is so perfect, yet stumbles awkwardly over the words we use here.  I have never been so aware of a woman’s lips before, never wondered if the taste of her would be as smooth as her skin or as surprising as her stuttering.  She gets frustrated easily and it’s all I can do not to lean over and kiss her slowly in praise for her efforts.

Instead, I try to correct her mis-speech by pinching the sides of my own mouth with my fingers to show her the shape of my lips and tongue.

She snorts with sudden mirth.

I cross my eyes at her.

And then I hear her laugh for the first time.  It is brief, breathy, and soft.  I treasure it.

That afternoon, we clean the fish for smoking, working companionably.  When she looks up, I give her a smile.  When she smiles back, my heart flutters in my chest like a hawk beating its wings.

“Talk to me,” I beg softly.  “In your own words.”

She gives me an odd look and I find myself struggling once again to make my meaning clear.  “Um… fish,” I say, pointing to the catch in my hand that I’ve yet to begin cleaning.  Then I gesture to her.  “How do you call it?  Fish?”

Katniss studies me as I wait.  Reluctantly, she mutters a word that I have never heard before.  I smile and point to the fish.  She says it again, a bit more confidently this time.  I hold up the knife in my hand and raise my brows, giving her an expectant look.  She smiles a little as she tells me the word for this.  I gesture to the basket and I get yet another.  Then, to my surprise, Katniss reaches into the belly of her fish and, pulling out its innards for my inspection, murmurs a long string of words with a slightly disgusted sneer on her lips that makes me chuckle.  I can only imagine what she has to say about fish guts.

“I want to understand you so badly,” I confess.

“Peeta,” she says, and I have to fist my hands to keep from shivering.

We finish about an hour before the night-meal and Kolfrosta adds three spitted fish to the hearth to bake.  She shares one with Káto, and Sigga shares hers with the girls… which leaves Katniss and me to divvy up the third.  I offer it to her with an encouraging nod and, peering at her over the rim of my porridge bowl, watch her nimble fingers pick apart the flesh from the bones.

When she has eaten a slightly small half, she passes it back to me.  Her fingertips are still shiny with the oil from the fish as she cradles her porridge bowl and all I can think of is the fact that my fingers will share in something that she had touched and savored and put between her lips.

I force myself to turn away from her and focus on eating.

Getting ready for bed following the end of the meal, things are awkward twofold compared to what they had been the night before.  I want to see the line of her legs again, from instep to knee.  I want to watch her fingers – now clean but still pulse-racingly nimble – gather the fabric of her dress in their grasp as she pulls her gown up over her head.

I face away and hurriedly shuck off my trousers, trying to move my bared left leg as quickly under the quilt as I can.

“Good night, Katniss,” I call softly.

“Good night, Peeta,” she answers and, for an instant, I can fool myself into thinking she is not on the other side of the room.  I can pretend she speaks my language.  I can imagine the impossible: that she might place her hand on my shoulder and slip her knee between mine.  I can dream that she would look upon my bare leg and that flicker of respect I’d thought I’d glimpsed at Trelleborg might grow into something more.

These thoughts follow me into my dreams where Katniss sleeps next to me in a bed made for a husband and wife.  Her skin is bare and warm and smooth.  She snores softly.  I hold her in my arms.  The long strands of her dark hair tickle my nose and cheek.  She sighs my name and I can hear and feel the want in her breath.


	10. Wrestling between Brothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! Somehow I posted Chapters 11 through 14 and skipped this one. Argh. What's an Everlark without gratuitous wrestling, right? RIGHT! So, much sorry about my bad, guys. m( _ _ )m

(Peeta)

 

“Come on, Peeta.  One match,” Káto cajoles.

“I’m busy,” I retort irritably.  “Maybe you haven’t noticed but your goats don’t milk themselves.”

“Leave it for Kolfrosta and Katniss.  They can cheer for us.”

I roll my eyes.  “Go wrestle the damned pony if you’re so keen.”

“He bites.”

My harsh laugh bounces off of the house and stable walls, startling the chickens.  “So do I!”

“Save that for Katniss, now,” he chides me with a smirk.

I glower at him as Katniss looks up from where she’s filling the pigs’ water trough.  She knows we’re talking about her; she’d heard Káto say her name.  “Go piss on a fence post,” I suggest to him with a friendly smile.

“Peeta,” he sing-songs.  “You know you want to impress a certain bunkmate of yours.”  Grinning, he throws his arms wide.  “I am _happy_ to oblige.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“Are you really doing nothing but teaching her our words every evening?” he teases me in a too loud whisper.  “Words _only?”_

“Yes,” I grit out, hating his mockery of each peaceful moment I spend with Katniss tutoring her after the night-meal is done.  I would not trade that closeness for anything in the world.  Not even what he is suggesting.  Katniss and I have spent the last fortnight thus before falling asleep on our benches.  Learning words, trading smiles, crawling into our separate beds.  Nothing more than that.

But with each passing night, Sigga’s grumbly snores make the tension between us vibrate and rattle until the very air is as taut as the strings on a loom.  Luckily, Birga and Hrefna are too young to notice this.  Unfortunately, Káto and Kolfrosta are not.  Despite the fact that their bed is kept in a private alcove, they seem unnaturally aware of my fascination with my, er, _woman._

I confirm, “Words only.”

“Such a shame… for the Norse tongue is _quite_ splendid.”

That’s it.  If he wants a damned wrestling match, I’ll give him one.

“Don’t you agree, Kolfrosta?” he hollers as I surge to my feet and reach for the belt holding my tunic down.  “Couldn’t Katniss do with a lesson on the charming cadence of the Northmen’s tongue?”

She snorts as she wrings the laundry water out of a sopping tunic.  “So long as your tongue isn’t the one instructing her, yes.  I highly recommend it.”

My tunic hits the ground an instant before Káto’s and then the game begins.  I am angry enough to dump him on his stupid, fat head, but I hold back.  He’s waiting for my lunge.  We’ve wrestled enough over the years that he knows my every weakness… but I also know his.

“Afraid to show me Kolfrosta’s claw marks on your back?” I quip.

“Wouldn’t want you to get jealous.”

I rush forward but leap back at the last possible moment.  Káto jerks unsteadily on his feet as he adjusts to my feint.  That’s when I crouch and slam my shoulder into his gut.  I twist out of his grasping hands and he tumbles ass-over-ears, coming up dusty and laughing.

“That’s more like it!”  He claps his hands together.  “Show me another!  Come on!”

I clench my jaw and force my retort back down.  Unlike Káto, I have no interest in drawing this out.  Swatting his right hand aside, I clamp my fingers around his left wrist, spinning him around and shoving him to the ground.  He rolls to his feet again.

“Nice one, Lover Boy.  Very nice.  Now, I’ll give you one more try.  Make it count.  Katniss is watching.”

I ignore that last jab, take a deep breath, step to the left, lift my arms and then I strike.

My hand curls around the back of his neck—

I grab his arm, step back and pivot—

Before his toes have hit the ground, I’ve got my arm around his throat and my knee in the middle of his back.  He bucks up trying to throw me off, but there’s nothing wrong with my balance.

“I can do this all day,” I tell him.  “Or until you stop acting like a spoiled brat.”

“A spoiled brat, am I?  You’re the one with the new toy, aren’t you?”

I almost bash him in the ear with my fist.  “She’s not a toy,” I growl.

“Then stop fooling around and get serious,” he orders.

I rear back.  “The only fool here is you.”

Káto huffs.  “You used to have a sense of humor, Peeta.”

“You used to have _sense.”_

With a furious twist, he throws me off and I bring my hands up in time to counter his lunge.  Dust rises around our feet, sweat drips down into my eyes.  My left leg aches sharply, but the mangled muscles hold steady.  Thrice more, I pin Káto to the ground.  Kolfrosta calls for her husband to finish with his warm-up already.  I’d be offended if I’d had enough energy for it.  I don’t.  I laugh weakly instead.

“Yes.  Let’s see what you’ve got,” I instigate.  “Or do you really present such a lack of a challenge for me?”

I force myself to forget about our audience.  I don’t let myself think about fire-lit evenings spent with my shoulder brushing Katniss’ as I try to tell her something else about Káto’s family or this land or – sometimes – myself.

Last night, she had smiled at the picture I’d drawn in the ashes.  “It is good,” she’d said and then paused before sending me a reserved, sidelong glance.  “You are good, Peeta.”

I want to be good.  She makes me want that in a way I never have before.

“Wake up!” Káto grunts as my back hits the hard-packed earth.  Damn.  I’d been daydreaming.

I roll and squirm out from under him, coughing and wiping impatiently at the sweat trickling down from my brow.  I climb slowly and a little unsteadily to my feet, facing off with Káto yet again—

—and we both flinch under the splash of very cold water.  I sputter, oddly satisfied to see Káto’s equally soggy state as we both turn toward our attackers.  Kolfrosta and Katniss stand shoulder-to-shoulder holding an empty bucket apiece.

“If you want to eat, take a bath,” Kolfrosta states.  She pivots on her heel and stalks into the house.  I don’t watch her go.  I only have eyes for Katniss.  Her gaze rakes down and then up my bare-chested, dripping, and dusty body.  Her lips curl into a small smirk before she turns smartly and jogs after Káto’s wife.

Immediately, all of the tension I’d burned off while wrestling with my idiot half-brother crashes back into me.  I gawk at Katniss’ swaying hips, and Káto dares to clap me on the shoulder.

“Sorry, Peeta.  I tried.”

“Tried what?” I cough out.

“To work you through that.”  He jerks his chin in the direction of the door through which Katniss had just disappeared.  “You looked ready to burst.”

“I’ve got it under control.”

He nods slowly, accepting my words even if he doesn’t believe me.

“Right.  Let’s wash up.”

The bath house is full at this time of day – just before the night-meal – but I keep to myself.  Everyone here has seen my leg, so I’m not particularly embarrassed by it, but I just don’t have the energy to pretend to think of anything other than Katniss and the trust we are building between us… and the lust I fight with every breath I take.

I shouldn’t want her.  Not so long as that collar sits upon her neck.

I’ll never save the coins needed to pay for her freedom.  And, even if I did, would she choose to stay with me?  How can she when she has a family in her homeland?

I am damned.

As I leave the bath house, however, Káto’s voice calls out merrily, “She watches you, you know.  When you’re unaware.”

I pretend I hadn’t heard him.  I pretend my heart doesn’t pound in my chest at the thought.  I cannot afford to hope because it will break me and I will not give the world another collared bastard child to toy with.  I will not.


	11. Taking the Blow

(Peeta)

 

I jerk awake and curse at myself.

And then I take stock of the warm weight resting against my shoulder.  Glancing down, I see Katniss, her lips parted and her dark lashes fanning her cheek.  She’s sound asleep.

She looks so young, so impossibly young.

My fingers brush over her face before I can stop myself.

A sudden bleat startles me, which upsets Katniss’ balance, and we both look up at the ewe and newborn lamb.

“Oh,” she sighs.  “When?”

I shake my head and laugh.  “I don’t know.  I feel asleep.”

“Sleep?”

“Yes,” I admit.

“Me, too.”

“We should have been watching,” I scold us both.  Lambing requires at least one person to keep an eye out.  I scrub my face with my left hand.  The right one is still pinned behind Katniss’ shoulders against the stable wall.  As I scratch at the lengthening hair on my jaw and cheeks, she shifts away and I reluctantly reclaim my arm.

“Two,” Katniss observes, her eyes focused on a second lamb hiding behind its mother.

“Twins,” I agree.

“Twins,” she repeats, reaching out a hand to the muzzle of the nearest newborn.

I feel a swell of pride at Katniss’ progress.  She has learned so much of our language in the month she’s been with us.

When she sits up on her knees and leans forward, I can’t stop my gaze from following the line of her back and hips.  Not that I can see much of either through her old tunic, but she’d dressed in her leg wrappings last night and her thighs are as lean and well-muscled as I remember.

Not for the first time, I’m thankful that Kolfrosta had introduced Katniss as my woman thereby letting everyone know that should they attempt to take advantage of her, they will make an enemy of me… and, by extension, Káto as well.  I do not lie to myself – Katniss will never be my woman – but it is a beautiful dream to lose myself in.

I remain against the stable wall and smile when Katniss slumps wearily back beside me.  The breeze she stirs smells like her.  Sometimes I think I can smell her all the way across the room in the middle of the night.  Those are nights when my dreams are their most vivid and… pleasurable.

Clearing my throat, I bring my knees up to cradle and conceal the hardening flesh beneath my trousers and tunic.  I am helpless against the reaction of my body, but I can choose to spare Katniss and myself the embarrassment of it being discovered.

“She is the last one?” Katniss checks.

I nod, smiling when the lamb sneezes and friskily skips its way over to its mother.  Katniss exhales and her body rests more heavily against mine.  “My mother loved the lambing,” I murmur.  I don’t know why I say it.  I’m too exhausted from late nights spent watching the ewes birth their young to guard my tongue.  Apparently, it wishes to speak of my mother.

“Where is she?”

The question is so soft as to be nothing but the rustle of bedding the glow of the lamplight.  “She is dead.  An illness when I was thirteen.”  My mother had come from a family of healers.  She had saved my life after the boar had nearly taken off my leg.  If only I could have saved her, too.

“Your mother as well?” I ask when I realize we’ve been quiet for too long.

She nods, but doesn’t offer anything else.  I can’t imaging speaking of her home is easy.

“I wish things were different,” I say into her soft, tangled tresses.  Her braid had been neatly woven, shining in the firelight yesterday evening at the night-meal, but a night spent in the stables keeping a watchful eye on the livestock has had its way with it.  I like it both ways.  “What happened to you – being taken from your home and brought here – is terrible… but I am glad I met you.”

Katniss shifts and studies me in silence.

I swallow thickly and feel compelled to confess, “I am not as good as you believe, I think.”

“You are good,” she insists in that flat, inarguable tone of hers.  “You are happy because I am here?” she checks.

With a nod, I elaborate, “I am happy.  Happy that we are friends.”

“You are happy.  I like that.”  The smile she gives me feels like a kiss.  “We are friends.  I like that, too.”

I am drowning in her grey eyes.  Her face has been clear of injury for some weeks now and she is perfect.  Were I man of admirable qualities, I would have reached for her, pressed our lips together.  But I am not that man.  I do the work of women and children.  I tell myself it is enough to have a friend in Katniss.

She bumps her shoulder against mine as she stands.  I smile when she holds out her hands to help me to my feet.  My leg is stiff from spending the night slouched against a wall on the hard-packed dirt floor of the stable and I hobble embarrassingly across the yard and into the longhouse.

“Uncle Peeta!  Can I see the lambs?  Please?”

Wide, soft, hope-filled eyes like Birga’s are devious weapons.  Kolfrosta thrusts a bowl into my hands as I take my customary seat beside Katniss.

“Me!  Me, me, me!” Hrefna insists, toddling over with sticky hands outstretched.

“Gods.  She’s taking after our she-bear,” I mutter.  “Kolfrosta, please.  You already have two irresistible daughters.  Let the next one be hideous.”

She pats her belly with a smirk.  “We shall see in a half a year.”

My jaw drops.  “What?  Really?”

She nods proudly.  I set my bowl down and hobble over to clasp her hands in congratulations.

“This is wonderful news!”

“What is?” Káto asks, coming inside and catching me holding his wife’s hands with a huge grin on my face.  “Oh, damn.  You told him?”

“I did,” she answers unrepentantly.

“I told you to wait for me to be here!”  He pouts.

I laugh in his face and offer him a handclasp and a slap on the back.

“And I look forward to offering _you_ my congratulations.  Soon, maybe?” Káto dares with a sly smile as he looks past my shoulder to where Katniss is exchanging a grin with Kolfrosta as Sigga rubs my sister-in-law’s as-yet-unrounded belly.

I shake my head at my brother, my smile fading despite the happy atmosphere.  “She still wears the collar, Káto,” I remind him and he sighs heavily.

He doesn’t assure me that he’ll permit me to pay her freedom price.  It’s too soon.  I know that.  But I have faith that the day will come.  Still, freeing Katniss does not mean she will choose me.  I do not expect her to.  But I can hope that with enough time, she might see something in me that is worthy of consideration.  I cannot hope to win her away from her family, but I selfishly want that decision to not be an easy one for her to make.

Káto pats my shoulder in commiseration.  He surely knows that I would never require Katniss to remain here once she has been freed.  I stay because I owe Káto my freedom and because we are family.  I would never hold Katniss to that debt… and we are not family.  When she is free, she will leave us.  Me.  She will leave me.

But we have time yet.

As soon as I’ve scraped my porridge bowl clean, Birga grasps my wrist and hauls me outside toward the stables.  Katniss follows with Hrefna hitched up on her hip and my eyes mist at the sight.  This will never be us – she and I – with our children.

Perhaps I should ask Káto to find me a milkmaid after all.

Yet, even as I think it, I know I could never do such a thing.  How could I take a wife when my heart is so torn?

In her excitement, Birga barrels right into the stable door and rattles it in its frame.  “Remarkable enthusiasm,” I mutter, “but calm down for the lambs, cub.  You’ll frighten them.”

She bounces up and down on her toes as I unlock the door.  I take my time so Katniss and Hrefna can catch up and I laugh at the sight of Hrefna’s sticky hands tangling in Katniss’ already matted hair.  Her consternated expression is a delight even as the light in her eyes makes me flush with warmth.  Oh, how I want.  I want her.  I want this.  Our child on her hip and her gaze warm and gentle upon me.

“Lambs!” Birga demands and, laughing, I pull open the door.

Birga scrambles inside and Katniss quickly follows, reaching out a hand to the girl’s shoulder to halt her headlong rush.  I curse softly.  I should have kept a tight grip on her hand instead of being charmed and destroyed by my daydreaming.

A sudden, delighted squeal tears through the stable house.

_“Birga!!”_

I have never heard Katniss shout before.  And never in that frantic tone.  Heart in my throat, I lunge over the threshold just in time to see Katniss twist Hrefna away from our cantankerous pony, pinning Birga to the wall and bracing her feet as a hoof lashes out.

Katniss makes not a sound as she is struck solidly in the hip.

“Gods—” I choke out, dashing forward as quickly as I can and shoving the irritable animal away.  “Katniss?”

I don’t know what to do.  She still has her hand fisted in the shoulder of Birga’s smock, but she makes not a sound.  Hrefna slaps Katniss’ shoulder, mimicking the pony’s rude behavior.

“Here,” I say, holding out my arms for the toddler.  “Let me take her.”  I don’t encounter any resistance when I lift Hrefna from her arms.  Placing a hand on Birga’s back, I gently push her in the direction of the door.  “Go back to the house, cub.  We’ll see the lambs later.”

“But—”

“Now, Birga,” I command.  My stern tone startles her.  I am never cross or harsh with her but, damn it, Katniss has still said nothing.  I am trying not to scream with worry.

The instant Birga steps out into the yard, I wrap my other arm around Katniss’ waist.  “Come.  Let Kolfrosta look at you.”

She tries not to limp but the effort costs her.  Her face pales and her eyes unfocus.  I pray that her leg isn’t broken, that her hip is only bruised.

“What’s this?” Peeta hears Kolfrosta ask in response to Birga’s noisy arrival.  “You’re finished tormenting the lambs so soon?”

“Uncle Peeta got angry.”

“Did he?”

I ignore the sudden tension in Kolfrosta’s voice.  She can be as furious with me as she likes.  When she storms over to the threshold, Katniss tries to stand up straight, but I don’t loosen my hold on her.

“What happened?” Kolfrosta demands, concern evening out her voice and hardening it.  She runs forward to take Hrefna from me so I can better manage Katniss.

“That damned pony.”  I could probably end the explanation there, but I am driven to say it all, to extol Katniss.  My Katniss.  “Birga’s shout startled him and he would have kick her skull in if not for Katniss coming between them and taking the blow.”

“Gods…” she breathes, turning to look at her eldest daughter hovering beside the door shyly.  Kolfrosta takes Katniss’ other arm and together we pull her indoors.  As Katniss sinks down onto the bench, Kolfrosta shoves Hrefna back into my arms.  “Take them to feed the chickens.  I’ll look after your woman.”

“Thank you, Kolfrosta,” I say, my hand reluctantly withdrawing from Katniss’ shoulder.

“No, Peeta.  Thank you.  For bringing her here, into our home.”  While I’m blinking at her uselessly, she turns to Katniss and says again, “Thank you, Katniss.  For my daughter’s safety.”

Katniss nods once and looks over at me.  It’s only when I see the characteristic frown draw her brows together that I realize I’m smiling.  I am _beaming._   I am just so… so happy.  Proud.  In love with her.

“Come, Birga,” I command as Kolfrosta begins pushing Katniss’ skirt up her legs so she can inspect the damage.  I feel sick to my stomach at the thought of Katniss being seriously injured, but her scowl has reassured me.  Certainly, she is fine.  If she can be irritated at me for grinning like a fool, then she must be all right.

I take Birga’s hand and marvel that Káto’s daughter is skipping along beside me right now.  Recalling that moment, I can only shake my head in wonder.  Katniss had moved so quickly between them, pushing Birga to safety.  Had Katniss not been there – had it been anyone else – Birga might be dead now.

There is no better woman than Katniss.

My heart is torn once again, half too heavy and half too light.  It is light with all the good things I feel on her behalf.  It is heavy with the knowledge that I will never be worthy of her.


	12. In the Meadow

(Peeta)

 

Shepherding is probably the most boring duty ever created.  I’ve never enjoyed it: hours spent sitting around and counting the same herd of sheep again and again.  It would put anyone to sleep.  But this year I have an additional reason for despising the task: it has taken me away from Katniss.

“Peeta!  To what do I owe the pleasure?” Darius calls out.

I wave to him as I tap the backs of a few lazy hocks, moving the dumb creatures toward the herd Káto had assigned the man.

“Watch these beasts while I go fetch provisions in the morning?” I propose, sharing his campfire as dusk turns to dark.

“Of course.”  He doesn’t ask me if my leg will make the trip down to the fallow field half a morning’s walk from the farmstead.  In fact, over the following fortnights, he doesn’t say a word as I volunteer again and again.  Káto’s shepherds murmur their thanks as I pass out the grain for porridge, cheese, cured pork, and whatever else Kolfrosta had sent us.  They must know why I trek so far every fourth day, but they say nothing.

Well, except for Darius who is as brazen as a free-born man even though he’s never known a day without the collar around his freckled neck.  He eyes my fresh tunic and trousers with a smirk, “Your woman treats you well, eh?”

“I’ve no complaints,” I say easily and it’s true.  Darius pesters me about what Katniss and I could be doing all alone in a fallow field for an entire afternoon, but I wave off his suggestions.  In the darkness, it’s easy to hide my reddened cheeks.  It’s not like that.  It can’t be like that.

In the morning, I collect a dozen sheep and let Darius know that I’ll see him again soon.

I make the slow, steady trip once every four days and my reward is a clean set of clothes, a new sack of provisions for myself and the other men, plus an afternoon spent with Katniss.

“Where do you sleep?” she asks one day as we stretch out side by side in the lush grass.

I smile up at the clouds.  “In good weather, under the stars.”  I say this with a gesture.  I’ve noticed that she understands my words much quicker when I accompany them with a gesture or a quick sketch.

“Is it dangerous?”  She turns her head toward me.

I do likewise and shrug.  “Perhaps.  I’ve never had a problem before.  I keep a fire.”

“But… your leg?”

Ah.  So she’s finally asking.  Most people aren’t shy about wanting to hear the tale, gore and terror included.  Not that Katniss is shy.  She’s a quiet sort of person, I think, but not shy.  No, she’s bringing it up now because she believes it could be important, not out of curiosity.

“It happened about six years ago,” I begin.  “Káto, Már, and Finnr went hunting.  They were too young to go on the spring and summer raids, but… well, they were still _boys.”_

Katniss frowns.

I explain, “The men who go out on the ships are usually married with sons.  They’re strong fighters.  That spring, Káto was in his seventeenth year, newly married.”

She nods encouragingly.

“I went on the hunt with them.  To hold the spears.”  When she looks irritated on my behalf, I add, “Káto and his friends were always kind to me.”  A few awkward memories bubble to the surface and I snort.  “Usually.”

She doesn’t ask for details.  I wouldn’t mind telling her, but that is a story for another time.

“We found a boar.”  Before she can ask, I lift my hands to my face and use my fingers to mimic the long tusks that are characteristic of the beasts.

Katniss’ eyes widen.  I nod.  We’d been so stupid, the four of us, believing we could take down a thing like that on our first try.

“They put all three spears in the creature, but that only made it angry.  It mauled my leg.”  I wrap my hands around my thigh.  It’s lumpy beneath my trousers and I hate the feel of it.  The muscle had been torn and shredded so badly that it was a miracle the flesh hadn’t rotted right off the bone.  “All I had was a club – for the death blow.”

And every hit to the animal’s head had meant another tear in my leg.  It had taken six consecutive blows for the furious creature to release me.

“Káto, Már, and Finnr carried me and our kill back to the fort.”  And once they’d dropped me on a bench in the king’s hall for his healer – my mother – to work on, they’d gone to Harald himself and begged to be sent out on the next ship.  I’d scarcely seen any of them for two years after that.  I’d always assumed that the sight of me and my mangled leg had disgusted them.  I had not been too bothered by thinking that of Már and Finnr, but for my own brother to turn away from me… that had never stopped stinging.

Looking back on it now, though, I wonder for the first time if there might be another reason.  Guilt, perhaps?  That accounts for much, actually.

Regardless of why he had left, it had been Káto who had given up his oar first – at Kolfrosta’s insistence, I’d bet – and when he’d come to tell me of his plans to move to the countryside to grow barley and raise cattle, I’d been certain I would only see him at the Thing and the occasional deliveries of tribute.

Imagine my surprise when he’d asked me, “So, when can you be ready to leave?”

“I am… going with you?”

He’d laughed at my wide eyes and gaping mouth.  “As a freed man, too.  Come on, Peeta.  Gather your things and put them on the cart before Kolfrosta can fill it with gowns for our daughter.”

Káto and I have never spoken of my freedom price.  He must have taken it from his share of the plunder from his voyages.  The thought of him going off and fighting for my freedom…  How could I not be his man after that?  How could I not spend my life in his service?  I never would have asked him to risk his life or throw away his money for me.  But he had done just that.

The fact that he hasn’t set foot aboard a ship since only proves my assumptions to be true.  Whenever he speaks to Már and Finnr of their adventures, his face softens and his eyes spark with memory.  I can see how much he misses those strange lands and the sea in between, but he is able to watch his daughters grow up and that makes him far happier.

And now he will be a father to a third.

Smiling up at the sky again, I tell the warm breeze, the sunshine, the woman beside me, “Káto and Kolfrosta came here, three years ago.  I came, too.”

When Katniss’ hand brushes mine, I blink open my eyes.  I roll my head toward her as she interlaces our fingers.  My chest feels much, much too small for my heart, which thrashes and struggles just like that boar had all those years ago.

She nervously wets her lips.  “Do not hunt… um, _that,_ um—”

“Boar,” I absently supply.

“Boar.  Do not hunt boar again.  Please.”

I laugh.  “I promise.  I’m done with boar.”

Her fingers tighten around mine.  I don’t let go of her hand until the sun is beginning to dip in the sky and she must start back lest she be caught out after nightfall.  But just before she pulls away, she stops, looks up at me, and using the edge of her hand, makes a gentle slicing motion against the side of my neck.

“Here… and here,” she adds, poking me in the hip at the joint, just above my buttock.  “Kill a boar.”

“You know how to kill boar?”  She’s so small.  Does she even have the strength to shove the spear in deep enough?

She nods and counts on her fingers for me.  Eight.  Eight boar have met their end at Katniss’ blade or spear tip.

I’m impressed.  “You should stay and protect me,” I jest.

She huffs.  “No knife.”  This she says as she holds out her hands with a playful grin.

Her smiles are exquisite.  I dine on the mere memory of them.  They keep me company as I while away the days with a carving knife in my hands.  I make fishhooks and spear tips, spoons, ladles, and bowls.  Every four days, I haul them down to the fallow field and Katniss takes them back to the farmstead for me along with my soiled clothing, which is a kindness she had engineered all on her own.  Any indication that she thinks of me and cares for my comfort warms me through and through.

As the summer months pass, I no longer feel any sort of trepidation about disrobing in her presence.  She always turns her back, as do I, but I wouldn’t mind if she looked.  I am hopeless in that I cannot rid myself of the hope that someday she might do that… and more.


	13. Harvest Time

(Peeta)

 

“I cannot dance,” I tell Katniss with a laugh.

“You can,” she insists.

“Not with this leg.”

She arches a brow at me.  “Then use the other.”

I bark out another laugh.  “Yes, fine.  I can dance with one leg.”  If my arms weren’t full, I’d be tempted to play a bit with her suggestion and hop around in a circle.

She ducks her head and chuckles at the knot she’s tying around the bundle of oats.  Her arms are not as long as mine, but she is surprisingly strong.  She has no trouble with the task.  She does not complain that the rough twine scrapes her hands.  I wonder if Katniss remembers having soft hands.  Maybe they had been once… when she’d been a child?  I’ve certainly never known her with them.

Clearing my throat, I bring my attention back to our lesson: can and cannot.  “Tell me something _you_ cannot do.”

“Hm.  I cannot touch the sun.”

I smile.  “Nicely done!”

“I cannot make a beard.”

“Grow a beard,” I correct as I lift the bundle of hay and toss it up onto the neatly arranged stack.

“I cannot grow a beard,” she echoes.

I give her a wide grin.  “Thank the gods for that.  Yours would be thicker than mine,” I tease, reaching forward to flick the end of her long braid.

“Jealous?”

“Yes.  Completely.”  I run a hand over my furry face.  It’s still not as thick as Káto’s.

Her lips twitch.  “Some things need time,” she advises.

“Wise words.”

She shakes her head on a soft laugh, tossing her bale of hay up onto the pile.  As we gather another armful and reach for the twine, she remarks, “No one calls me wise.  Ever.”

“Oh?”  I think she is very wise.  “What do they call you?”

“Um…”  She frowns, searching for words.  There are still so many I haven’t taught her yet.  “Hurry?  No.  Um.  Not wait.  I don’t like to wait?”

“Impatient,” I supply.

“Yes, impatient.  And I do not understand people.  Heart.  Mind.”  Her hand flutters and her brows draw together in an aggravated scowl.  It makes me want to kiss her.

In fact, I’m so distracted by this single thought that it takes me a moment to realize she expects a response from me.

“Peeta?  What is the word?  I am not good at… people.”  She looks to me for help but I’m too startled to think of the term she’s looking for.

“That’s not true,” I argue.  “You read people well.”

“No.”

“You read me.”

She shakes her head again.  “No, Peeta.  I don’t.”

“I confuse you?”

“Of course you do.  You are kind, gentle, good.  You care.  Me.  About me.  And you ask nothing.”  She frowns even more fiercely as she wrestles with the twine.

I could argue that I ask her a lot of things.  I am always asking her questions now that her skill with our language is so much improved.  That’s not what she means.  I never ask her _for_ anything.  Specifically, for her touch or for the use of her body, which I cannot deny that I want very badly.  Just returned from the summer pastures, I haven’t been given much time to dwell on our close proximity.  We’d headed out to the fields for the harvest the morning after the sheep had been brought in.  Káto’s fields are endless and the work has taken us nearly a fortnight thus far to bring in half of it.  Still, how can she think I don’t want her?  I am too exhausted to even flush so it is safe to speak of this, isn’t it?

“Katniss, I do not want to _ask.”_

She looks up at me, startled.

I continue, “You _give_ me your friendship.  I…”  I swallow.  I clear my throat.  Perhaps it is _safe_ to speak of my desires, but it is not easy.  “I have missed you,” I finally admit.  My face heats.

Her lips twitch as she tries to flatten the smile out of them.  “Um.  You cannot miss me now.”

I almost drop the twine in my hands as I laugh.  “Yes.  You are right.  I cannot miss you now.”  But I do.  I miss sleeping beside her on the side of the road.  It had only been for one night on our way back from Trelleborg last spring, but I miss that, that moment, her… in my arms.

“She hasn’t smiled all summer,” Sigga tells me when I get back from cleaning up at the bath house.  Káto scoops Kolfrosta away from the meat boiling in the iron kettle pot and nuzzles her neck, making her squeal.  He rubs her rounded belly as Hrefna dives off of a bench to get her parents’ attention and Birga starts twirling with her wooden bowl held high over her head.

It is chaos.

I have missed this.

Katniss hovers beside the pot of softly burbling porridge, rolling her eyes at their rambunctious display.  She glances over at me from across the meal-fire lengthwise and I have to curl my hands around the ledge beneath my thighs to keep myself seated.

“And now that you’re back, it’s one smile after another,” Sigga mutters with an air of satisfaction.

“What?”

“Your woman,” she replies, gesturing blatantly in Katniss’ direction.  “Missed you something painful.”

I blink.  My heart stutters.  Heat blossoms along my neck as I try to recall seeing Katniss smile in passing at anyone besides me.  She scowls at interruptions, frowns during conversation, gives too-short replies, strides purposefully from one task to another without pause.  Am I really the only person she consents to spend her time and her smiles on?

When Katniss appears at my elbow with a bowl, I startle so badly I almost knock it to the floor.  “Sorry!  Sorry, Katniss.”

“Yes, she _was_ very sorry-looking with you gone,” Sigga grumbles in agreement.

I’m not sure if Katniss understands the old woman’s mumbling, but she brushes my shoulder with her hand and I know I was missed.  She missed me.  I want to hear her say the words but there is something in her eyes, something in the tilt of her chin that stays my tongue.

She is not ready yet and I will not take what she will not freely give.

Whenever I meet Katniss’ gaze as we eat, she gives me a smile, a slight but real curving of her lips.  I don’t bother to try to keep the wide grin off of my face.  It is good to be home.  Very good.


	14. Weaving Together

(Peeta)

 

It begins with a pained grunt.  I have heard this sound before.  Sigga tenses.  Katniss looks up from the loom.

“My sweet one…?” Káto prompts, abandoning the ax handle he is replacing and moving toward his wife to collect her hands.

“I am fine,” she assures him, clutching the gown she is mending in a grip that turns her knuckles white.  The lines of stress have already faded from her expression, but when Sigga suggests that Káto fetch a basin from the bath house, he complies immediately.

Sigga goes back to combing wool and I return my attention to the loom and Katniss.

“Will she… soon?” she mouths in near-silence.

“Perhaps,” I answer.  Whether or not she will, there’s nothing any of us can do to either halt or hurry the process along.  “Here, now.  The thread’s come loose.”

It had surprised me to learn that both Kolfrosta and Sigga had tried and _failed_ to teach Katniss how to weave cloth on the loom.  Surely this is a task that the women of Katniss’ country are proficient in?  Or, given how well Katniss uses a knife and spear, perhaps she’d been given alternative tasks once it had become clear that her talents lie elsewhere.

I’m fair with a loom.  My mother had taught me and I’d worked it to pass the time while my leg had been healing.  I cannot hope to weave enough cloth to pay for Katniss’ freedom in a single winter, but with all the animals bedded down in their shelters and the night falling sooner and sooner each day, I’d taken it upon myself to weave as much as I can.  A fortnight ago, while Káto and Darius had taken the last load of tribute to Trelleborg, I’d begun.  The following evening, Katniss had moved to sit next to me to watch my hands.

Is it strange that I like how she watches me?

“Would you like to learn?” I had asked her.

Kolfrosta had laughed.  Sigga had groaned.  Katniss had admitted – almost proudly – to her lack of skill.  I’d taken it on as personal challenge to teach her.

We’ve been weaving together for the last dozen evenings and she has yet to show any improvement, but I’m stubborn.  I’m not giving up on her until she gives up on me.  And then maybe not even then.

“There,” I say, tugging the wayward thread taut.  “Now begin again.  One… two… three…”

The rhythm of the loom clicks and clacks in the fire-toasted room.  When I glance over my shoulder, I see Hrefna and Birga playing with the little straw dolls Káto had made for them and Kolfrosta’s chin is tucked down over her chest as she dozes on the bench.  She looks exhausted.  Perhaps I’ll mend the gown for her later.  Hrefna is almost tall enough to wear it.  The one she’s in now is noticeably small on her.

When I turn back to the loom and Katniss, my chin and the tip of my nose catches a few strands of her hair.  I find myself looking into her eyes.  It feels like she and I have never been this close to each other before, which is ridiculous because I remember clutching her to my chest, waiting for the blood on her clothes to soak into mine, pressing her face against my neck and shoulder, and ordering her to weep like a woman caught in the grip of terror.

“You saved my life,” Katniss says suddenly.  “At the fortress.”

I had.  “You wanted to die,” I accuse very softly.

She nods.  “I did not believe…”  She stops, sighs, begins again.  “I thought – my life will be pain.  I chose death.”

My breath catches.  Gods, she is so determined.  “Are… do you wish I had not helped you?” I venture uncertainly.

Her gaze returns to mine.  My lips tingle in anticipation of a kiss that I know will not happen.  “No.  Thank you, Peeta.”

I have no words.  I just stare at her.  I cannot imagine my life without her.  I would not want to live.  There would be no point to it.

The door bangs open and I flinch away.  Káto gives me an apologetic smile as he hauls the heavy basin into the room.  Sigga directs him to place it near the meal-fire.  In the very next moment, Kolfrosta gasps.  Katniss grips my hand tightly as we watch the rivulets of birth fluid run down over her ankles.

The baby is coming.

“Peeta, Katniss, take the girls to the stables for the night,” Káto requests, moving to his wife’s side as Sigga begins putting the unspun wool away.

I nod and quickly gather the things we’ll need.

“I can stay,” Katniss offers.  “And help.”

I shake my head.  “We _are_ helping.”  Birga and Hrefna are too young to be anything other than scared by the sight of their mother in labor.  It will be better for everyone if we sleep elsewhere tonight.

I hand Katniss my mantle and I bundle the girls in their fur capes.  A roll of sheep fleece, a water skin, and a bit of dried cod – just in case the girls get hungry – completes my preparations.  I tell Birga and Hrefna to say goodnight to their mother and father and then the four of us head outside.

Snow has been falling all day and, even in the well-worn paths, it sifts around my ankles.  I carry Birga and force myself not to acknowledge the biting cold of the winter wind.  Katniss takes Hrefna and shuffles after me, swimming beneath the awkward bulk of my too-big mantle.  At least they’re warm.

The meal-fire is still lit when we push open the stable doors.  I poke my head in first to make sure we haven’t interrupted anyone getting undressed for bed.  Six pairs of eyes look up at me.  Everyone is clothed.  We’ve interrupted a game of Tafl.

“Are the Swedes winning?” I ask in greeting as Darius stands in welcome.

Katniss gives the game board in the center of the worker’s alcove a stray glance.  She frowns as if she’s never seen the like before.  I wonder what games they play in her homeland.

Darius laughs.  “Will you play?  Here, take my seat.  I’m terrible at this game.  Maybe you can rescue the king on my behalf.”

I wave him off with a smile.  “Perhaps another night.  The little ones need to go to bed.”

“But I’m not sleepy,” Birga grumps, sounding very cranky indeed.

“Then you must consult Darius on his strategy.  The king is in peril,” I inform her, setting her down beside the board so I can unfurl the fleeces in an unoccupied corner.

Katniss hands me the mantle and then takes Hrefna past the low wall to see the sheep.  I look around and relax once I’ve spotted the pony tethered to the far wall.  He’ll not be causing any mischief tonight.  This year’s lambs are nearly as tall as their mothers so Hrefna grows bored quickly.  Katniss returns and sets her down on the fleece between us and Hrefna wastes no time in trying to crawl her way up my chest to my shoulder.

I can feel Katniss watching me as I tickle Hrefna’s cubby knees and buss her cheek with my beard.  The weight of her gaze makes me inexplicably nervous, as if I am being weighed.  Does she think I would be a good father?  My breath suddenly shortens at the thought.

“Have you made many friends?” I ask hurriedly.

She gives me a startled look, glancing over at the six male slaves Káto keeps.  “Them?”

“Well, no.  They’ve been out herding the sheep and cattle with me.  I mean… is there anyone from the other families you, um, speak to?”

Katniss looks away, giving the benefit of her iron-grey gaze to the fire in the grate.  “No.  I am not good at saying something.”

“You speak just fine,” I console her, gently nudging Hrefna’s elbow away from the base of my throat.

She shakes her head.  “It is because of you.  You listen.  You, um…”

Her cheeks seem to grow ruddier in the shadows.  Is she blushing?  “I… what?” I persist, intrigued.

“You want to hear my words,” she murmurs.

“Of course I do.  They are worth hearing, worth speaking.”  I daringly reach for her hand and interlock our fingers.  She seems to relax and I sigh out a long breath.

Not long thereafter, Birga falls asleep beside the game board and Katniss goes to collect her.  Hrefna has fallen asleep on my chest so I cannot move to aid her.  When Darius helps roll the girl into Katniss’ arms, I notice how she almost flinches from his touch.

Katniss tucks Birga into a fleece and pets her hair away from her tiny brow.  I squint thoughtfully, trying to remember when I’d last seen Katniss touch Sigga or Kolfrosta or even Káto.  I cannot come up with a single memory.

I bundle Hrefna into the fleece, next to her sister, and then, with no small amount of trepidation, I hold out a hand for Katniss.  She moves to my side, snuggling beneath my mantle with me without hesitation.

My body sings.  My heart soars.

I lean down to breathe softly against the crown of her head, “Good night, Katniss.”

“Good night, Peeta.”

She closes her eyes and I hold her close.  We are not alone, but I could not care less about the six men still murmuring by the fire, drinking weak ale.  Katniss is once again in my arms.  Slumber seems a shameful waste of an opportunity, but before long her slow breaths lull me to sleep.


	15. The Shearing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, I mistakenly FORGOT to post Chapter 10. ... I know, I know. I'm a horrid fangirl. Especially since I have much LUV for Chapter 10 - Wrestling between Brothers. So, if you haven't read it yet, go back and read it. You won't regret it.

(Peeta)

 

I laugh at the look on her face.  Katniss pities the sheep.  I cannot believe it.

“Here,” I soothe, reaching for her hand and pressing a just-sharpened knife into it.  “I’ll show you how.”  The animal I’ve got in a headlock bleats pathetically.  Katniss looks to be on the verge of running out of the stable.

“It will be all right.”

She glares at me, but I know her heart isn’t in it.

“Trust me.  By this time tomorrow, they won’t remember what it felt like to be covered in wool.”

“Like this,” Darius encourages her, sliding the blade of his own knife through the thick, matted hair of the creature he has wrapped one burly arm around.  Katniss watches as he peels the fleece from the sheep with sure, deliberate strokes of the blade, and I watch Katniss.  Darius is a big man, strong and with a good face, but Katniss spares him not a glace.  She only watches the movements of the knife.

In a few minutes, it is done.  Darius sends the now naked sheep off to herd with its fellows and tosses the fleece onto the growing pile.

“Now you try,” I urge her, holding an old ewe tightly in my arms.  When she is practiced enough with the blade, Katniss will not need me to keep the animals still, but for now I am glad this is the work for two.

Her cuts are cautious but they quicken as her confidence grows with each animal we shear.

“Are you worried you’ll injure the sheep?” I ask quietly, trying to understand the intensity of her focus and her slow pace.

“Kill,” she corrects.  “I cannot pay Káto for a dead sheep.”

“Ah.  They’re hardy things.  They’ll be fine.”

And they are.  A few sheep sport small cuts by the end of the day, but Katniss’ are all pristine and bare.

“Will you come to the Thing with us?” I ask her during the night-meal.  Sigga is singing softly to the babe in her arms and Kolfrosta is mediating some dispute between her daughters.  Káto will return soon from the nightly inspection of the farmstead, and he’ll scoop up his son and coo to him, but for now we are spared the embarrassment of watching him make a fool of himself.

“The Thing?”

“Yes.  Every spring, there is a meeting at the fort.  I’m sure Káto will ask you to come.  Galinn and Unnr’s eldest daughter is old enough to marry.  Galinn expects he’ll find a husband for her there and, while he and Káto speak with the fathers, she’ll need a companion.  Will you come?”

Katniss had lowered her bowl during my explanation.  She now glances away and stares at the fire.  Her thoughts are, as ever, a mystery to me.

“Why do you not wed her?”

“What?”

Katniss glances at me.  “You are a freed man and of age, so…”

I shake my head.  “I do not want Galinn’s daughter.”  Katniss stares at me and I feel my palms begin to sweat.  “She is a fine girl,” I stutter, “but I do not…  She is not…  Um.”

Only when she looks away, thoughtfully spooning porridge into her mouth, do I breathe normally again.

“Will you come?” I press quietly.

“Will you be there?”

“Of course.”

“All right.”

I beam.  I will not have to miss Katniss for the week of the Thing.  My hand twitches with the need to grasp hers, but we are eating.  I keep to myself.

The door bangs open and, seeing the two of us seated side by side and my wide smile, Káto laughs.  “Asked her already, did you?”

I nod.  I know I’m embarrassing myself, but I don’t care.  Besides, when Káto swoops down on Sigga and collects his young son from her arms, he turns into twice the fool I could ever hope to be.  The following conversation he has with the babe makes me snort into my porridge.  Katniss bites the inside of her cheek to hide her smile.

My brother is a fool for his children.  I would be, too.

Glancing sidelong at Katniss, I startle when I find her gaze slowly roving up my thighs, over my hip and chest, my arms and neck.  By the time her eyes look into mine, we are both flushed.

I should say something.

I can think of nothing, nothing except how much I want her.

But… does she want me?  Could she?  The sudden, sharp flare of hope is pure pain, pure delight.  _I will try,_ I decide.  _I will ask._   Once I’ve earned the coins for Katniss’ freedom price, I will ask her to stay with me always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next is a different point of view. Peeta has had fourteen (count 'em... 14!!) chapters all to himself, so somebody else gets the spotlight. Brace yourself.


	16. Trelleborg

(Gale)

 

“What do you see?”

I sigh out a long, slow breath.  “Harald’s fortress,” I growl.

A slight pause pulses in the light of dawn.  Thom clears his throat.  “How are we going to get inside?”

The question echoes in the silence and stillness.  Thom doesn’t ask it again.  He has probably just realized how incredibly stupid it is.  The only way we’ll get inside that fortress is if we are captured.  But there’s no guarantee that what we seek can be found inside those walls of earth and timber.

“Do you think she’s in there?”

That is a slightly better question.  “This is where the Northmen were headed last spring,” I reply.

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I tracked them.”

“On the sea?”

“Ships have to make berth.”

That shuts him up… although he is right to question me.  I do not know for certain that Katniss had been brought to _this_ fortress.  I’d only had a brief glimpse of the ship and its prow.  I’d traded for information along the coast for weeks, seeking the ship that had taken her.  When I’d run out of rumors, I’d found myself staring at the fortress of King Harald.  Trelleborg, they call it.

I call it Hell.  Fortress of the Damned.  I will raze it to the ground and piss in the smoldering ashes.

For all of a heartbeat, I enjoy the vision of Trelleborg in ruins.  I relish it until I realize that there is no peace to accompany it.  This thought is only a dearth, not a comfort.  Comfort and I have long since parted ways.  I no longer know how to rest.  I have not rested easily since the Northmen raided our village.  They would have stormed the fortress if we hadn’t prepared so thoroughly and trained so hard over the winter.

We’d been ready.

But we’d still suffered much.  Too much.  The bodies had been counted and the funeral mounds raised, but I hadn’t been there to see the latter.  I’d already been following the river northwest to the delta, asking at every seaside house and harbor after that damned demon prow, certain of nothing except that Katniss had been taken.  Captured.

I live in fear.  I know Katniss: she would choose death before serving one of those beasts.  We are the same, she and I.  And that is what I would do.  Death first.

That is what Thom does not know.  That is the question he has not asked.  Our primary concern is not where Katniss is, but if she is still alive.  It has been three very long seasons since that day of blood and battle.  Anything could have happened.

She could be dead… and if she is, our hope dies with her.  Her father will not survive much longer and if she does not return to unite the tribes, there will be war.  Unstoppable war and there will be no victors… only victims.

I cannot abide by it.

So, if death is on its way, then it will visit the Northmen first.  They took her and now they will pay for it.

“Gale?” Thom ventures uncertainly.

I grit my teeth with impatience.  If not for his skill with edible plants, I would have left him behind at home.  What I am planning has no place for an apothecary.

“Go back to camp,” I order him.  “Send a replacement to keep watch in three days’ time and remember, if I cannot be found, then you must send word to Rory that he and Primrose wed as soon as possible.”

Thom doesn’t remind me that both my brother and Katniss’ sister are too young, that Haymitch is too old, that the tribes will not follow their lead.  They are all we have.  If Katniss is lost to us, then we will have to make do.  There is too much at stake to quibble over details now.

I glare at the ring of impenetrable walls in the distance.  This is my last chance.  Katniss is our last chance.  She is here somewhere.  All I have to do is find her.


	17. Where I Love You

(Katniss)

 

It is spring, but the winter chill still lingers in the air.  The floor of the longhouse is so cold it stings my bare feet.  I wiggle into my leggings, burrow into my Norse gown and belt my father’s tunic over it.  My toes seek the darkness inside my leather boots.  The door squeaks softly as I make my escape and a soft, sleepy grunt freezes me upon the threshold.  I look back at the tumbling mess of tousled blond curls among the bedding.  The quilt and fleece has been pulled up to his pink ears.  He shifts, sighing deeper into his warm bed on the bench across from mine.  For nearly a year, I have slept four paces away from him.  I know his mannerisms now.  Peeta will not wake.  Not yet.

I select a spear and a basket.  I do not expect to catch anything this morning, but it is as good an excuse as any to go out before the rest of the household rises and we depart for the fortress.  The cart is loaded and ready.  Soon, I’ll be walking the rutted road again with Peeta as I did three hundred days ago.

Three hundred days.  I have counted each, notching a tiny scratch into the wall beside my bed for each day gone.  Three hundred days of living with Peeta and his family.  In some ways, each seems like a gift.  And in some ways, each seems like a curse.

The softly glowing murk of nearly dawn draws me away from the yard, from the chickens, pigs, goats, cattle, and the temperamental pony that is kept with the sheep.  That damn pony.  I only ever call the beast by foul names, but he seems to favor them.  He has certainly earned each and every one of them.

As I wind my way toward the small river, I remember that morning when Birga, eager to see the new lambs, had shrieked with joy and that damned pony had startled, nearly kicking her in the head.  He’d caught my hip instead only because I’d seen his withers twitch and dived between them.

I had been incensed when Peeta had herded us all back to the house – Birga, shocked silent, and me tight-lipped and limping – only to brag to Kolfrosta of my bravery.

No, not bravery.  It had been a reflex.  After a lifetime of coming between my sister and the ugliness of the world, a sharp-hooved pony was naught but an annoyance.

But he’d been so proud.  His blue eyes had glowed and his smile had illuminated the dim interior of the house.  Even through his concern, he’d shone.  He’d looked at me as if I were the sun in the sky.  He still does.

He always has.

I pause at the icy bank of the river.  This side is perpetually in shadow so winter still clings to the trees and rocks here… just as it still clings to me.  From the moment word had reached my father and me of the Northmen and their unstoppable raids, I have lived in a winter of the heart.

Only now, as I count my three-hundred-and-first day do I realize the truth:

My spring had arrived the moment Peeta had hesitated on the kitchen threshold of the longhouse at the fort, offered me his hand, his name, and a kind smile.

Peeta.  A slave boy who has become a good man.  An honorable and patient man.

There is no one better.

I lift my hand to my throat and run my fingertips over the collar I must wear.  Despite this mark of my misfortune and shame, I am Peeta’s friend.  Kolfrosta, Káto, Birga, Hrefna, Sigga… all of us are family.

I miss my father.  I miss my sister.  I miss Gale, my irritating and pompous childhood friend, the man I would have married because it had simply made sense to do so.

I have known since I’d awoken on the deck of the Northmen’s ship that I would never see them again, but today is the first day that the thought does not threaten to engulf me with despair.  I have endured three hundred days of holding my pain close, guarding it jealously, making a fortress of it to protect my heart.

No longer.

Drawing a deep breath, I close my eyes.  I hate what I am about to do, but I must be practical.  I must weigh my choices.

Is my father still alive?  Likely not.  And I know what that will mean: a new king of the tribes, a new way of life that I will not know.  My homeland will be a foreign country to me.

Does Prim need me?  I do not know.  She might be Rory’s wife by now, but by the time I make my way back to her – if I ever do – she will be her own woman.  She will have become accustomed to taking care of herself.  My return will come too late.

Do I want Gale?  No, I don’t.  I will miss him, but I have the memories of our childhood, our hunts, our competitive games with shields and axes made of wood.

It is sobering to admit that even if I were freed, I would have no way of returning home.  And if I somehow could, would there be anything left for me there?  There is no way to know.  There is no point in looking back.

The weight has been tallied: my home or this place.

I know what I will choose.  The choice itself does not hurt so badly.  But realizing that I’d made it long ago – the day I’d decided to fight against the Northmen – nearly brings me to my knees.  I’ve already said my farewell to my family.  I’d said it the moment I’d run into the street to meet the raiders in battle.

It is time for me to let go of the past.  Sever the threads.  They are not strong enough to pull me back to my people.  This is my life now… with Peeta and his brother’s family.  I have no past here, only future.

The first light of day breaks over the horizon as my song pours forth.  A song of farewell and love and loss.  I am saying goodbye.

_“Deep in the meadow, under the willow—_

_“A bed of grass, a soft green pillow—_

_“Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes—”_

Although I have not sung in so very long, I remember each and every word.  I remember singing these words to Primrose when she would wake from a nightmare.  I remember singing them to our father when the pain would become too much.  I remember singing them to my mother as she had faded from this life. This is our song, the four of us, and although we are apart, I will love them always.

_“Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true—_

_“Here is the place where I love you.”_

I don’t want the song to be over, but all things must end.  That is the only way new things can begin.  And I am beginning… again.

I think of Peeta.  He has called us friends, but we could be more.

I do not know that I want that, but I need him.  He anchors me as I drift in this strange place with nothing holding me down except for this damned collar and my next breath.  I am alive because of him.  I did not ask him to save me, but he did.  I did not ask him to keep me safe, but he has done that as well.

Perhaps I am not as adept as most when it comes to understanding _things_ between a man and a woman, but I could not have missed Peeta’s warm looks and long glances.  I think he needs me in the same way that I need him.  I think he would like for me to need him even _more._   I might be ready to allow myself that.

Now I just need to find the words to tell him.

I suspect that I will never be able to speak them smoothly, confidently.  The words of his tongue are heavy and awkward for me.  Perhaps I will show him.  There must be a way.  I will find it.

As I turn to head back to the farmstead, a man-shaped shadow rising out of my trail makes me pause.  For a moment, I see only an enemy who intends to do me harm.  I ready the bone-tipped fishing spear in my grasp and brace myself for the attack.

He draws in a shuddering breath.  “Katniss…”

My arms drop to my sides.  “Peeta.”

“You… _do_ sing,” he chokes out, moving closer through the slush.  His eyes are red and tear tracks have already begun to crystalize on his cheeks.  They will freeze in his soft, pale beard soon.  “So beautiful.”

I watch his mouth form the words.  My heart pounds so hard it hurts.  This man who knows naught of my language weeps at the sound of my voice.  We do not need words, he and I.  We never have.

Without thought to direct it, my hand lifts to his face and I feel his soft, whiskery beard against my chilled fingertips.  In the next instant, his broad, warm, rough hand covers mine.  We have never touched quite like this.  Not when he’d taught me how to weave fabric upon the loom.  Not when I’d delivered food and clean clothing to him up in the meadow.  Not when we’d bracketed those summer days with lazy moments, our shoulders touching as we’d sat side by side.

I have never touched him like this although I’ve thought about it.  During those summer days, yes, and during the harvest, too, when I would look up from my work and catch him gazing at me, smiling softly.  And then there had been those endlessly dark winter nights when we’d whispered at the hearth and Sigga had snored.

I do not know if I will ever be free of the past, but I wish to grasp my future.

“Peeta,” I whisper, studying his features.  He is so gentle and patient.  He makes me laugh.  I feel safe with him.  He is the calm in a stormy world.

Without a word, he draws me closer, caressing me into a warm embrace.  His arms pull his cloak around us both and I shiver at the sudden warmth.  He is so warm.  Always so warm.  I sigh against his neck.

“I don’t want to leave this moment,” he murmurs roughly.

Recalling the boisterous halls and crowded streets of the fortress, I share the sentiment.  I am not looking forward to visiting that place again.  The Northmen drink too much, laugh too loudly, play too roughly.  How strange Peeta must seem to them.

“Will you stay with me?” I ask.  “At the fort?  Will you stay?”

He leans his head against mine and sighs.  “Always.”


	18. Negotiations

(Katniss)

 

“There are three prices to be paid,” Peeta explains as we walk beside the cart.  His pale hand rests upon the edge of it, ready to push or pull if the wheels become stuck.  That he can do this with one hand is astounding.  It is easy for me to forget how strong he is.

“Three?”  I’m not really interested in the intricacies of Northmen weddings, but Peeta seems very invested in this topic and I enjoy hearing him speak.  About anything, apparently.

“Yes.  There is the bride-price, which the new husband will pay to his future wife’s father.  There is the morning-gift, which the new husband gives his wife on the first full day of their marriage.  And there is the dowry, which the new wife brings to her husband’s home in order to share her father’s wealth.”

I resist the urge to rub my forehead.  This is far more complicated than how things are done in Samland.

“Of course, a woman need not have a dowry,” Peeta hurriedly adds.  “And if she is without family, then the bride-price would go to a male guardian… if there is one.  But the morning-gift would be the responsibility of the husband.  No man would take a wife unless he could afford a respectable morning-gift.”

Peeta glances at me, his cheeks a little pink.  From the walk, perhaps?  Or his enthusiasm for wedding chatter?

Since he seems to be awaiting my response, I obligingly ask, “What its purpose?  The morning-gift?”

“Oh.  Um, so that the wife will have some means of self-support.”

“Self-support?”  I hate how I am always asking questions.  There is so much I do not know.

“Yes.  Of course, a husband will provide for his wife, but if something were to happen to him…”  He shrugs.

I shudder.  I do not want to imagine the farmstead without Káto there to sing to his she-bear, Birga, or to carry his little raven, Hrefna, on his shoulders, or coo to his newly-born son, Vetr.

I do not want to imagine Peeta’s place – the bench where he sleeps in his brother’s home – empty for all time.

The silence becomes heavy between us.  My tongue is dead in my mouth.  Peeta haltingly offers, “Um, Kolfrosta’s morning-gift was, um, Darius and the others.  Some sheep and pasture.  Other things, too.”

I gasp.  Shock lifts my tongue and words tumble out.  “Káto gave her all of that?”

Peeta nods.  “And more, I think.  Kolfrosta’s dowry was bigger, though.  The cattle.  That was part of it.”

My feet move, but my mind stalls.  I cannot grasp the scale of this custom.

“It is not this way in your homeland?” Peeta asks gently.

All I can do is shake my head.  I cannot speak of the marriage rites in my country without thinking of Gale.  We would have exchanged our gifts by now and declared our intentions in public.  Perhaps we would have clasped hands and received wealth from our families.  Now that will never happen.

When I imagine a hand clasped in mine, it is not Gale’s that I see.

Although the night is cold, there is no need to share a fleece as so many have been loaded onto the cart.  We each take two apiece and curl up around the fire.  If I sleep closer to Peeta than to Galinn’s daughter, Geira, then it is only chance which made me turn that way in the night.

Geira stays close to her father as we approach the fort.  She’d asked me to comb her hair, leaving it long and straight and shining like a mink pelt in the sunlight.  She is very lovely.  I’m sure she will have many offers.

“What do I do?” I ask Peeta as we draw nearer to the gates.  He follows my gaze when I glance meaningfully in Geira’s direction.  “I do not know your customs.”

“Oh, um.  Káto and Galinn will speak to the other fathers on her behalf.  They might call for her to meet a man and exchange greetings.  Just… stay at her side and assist her.  Don’t let her wander alone.”

“Where will you go?”

He nods to the load in the cart.  “First, I must deliver Harald’s tribute.  Then, I will be free to accompany you both.  Until then, you’ll stay with Galinn.  Káto may have other business to take care of.”

Although the creaking of the wooden cart is likely loud enough to conceal my next question, I bite it back.  I would ask Peeta if he trusts this man, Galinn, but his answer does not matter.  Galinn and his wife Unnr have been kind to me over the past months, but men are oftentimes different when they are free of their wives.  I cannot trust anyone here… except for Peeta.

We arrive just as the sun begins to sink behind the horizon and just before we part ways beyond the gate, Peeta’s hand brushes gently down my arm.  “Please, do not look for trouble like last time.”

From his crooked smile and worried frown I know he is thinking of the knife I had stolen and then used without hesitation.  “I will defend myself,” I retort.

“As you should,” he agrees.  “But please take care so that there is no need for it.”

I nod.  I refuse to keep my head down, but I do not go so far as to look anyone in the eye.  I keep to Geira’s shadow and tend to her as I once used to do to Prim, smoothing the strands of her hair back down once the wind has toyed with them and minding that the hem of her gown does not become soiled with mud or animal droppings in the street.

Peeta returns before Káto and from that point onward, he does not leave my side.  He greets men – both free-born and collared slaves – with a smile and a slap on the shoulder, but he does not allow more than an arm’s length to come between us.  He speaks too fast for me to understand much of what he says, but I can see by the way his friends look at me that he is telling them I am his.

Sometimes I hear the word “collar” and “woman” and something about money, but Peeta only nods and gesticulates happily, which confuses me.  I had thought the slave collar was a painful memory for him.  Why would he discuss mine so freely now?

“You are very lucky,” Geira says to me during one such conversation.  She offers me a sweet smile.  She seems a nice enough girl, a year or so younger than me.  Her hands are soft from milking and weaving.  We do not have much in common, she and I.  Before I can summon some sort of response, her father calls her over to meet a prospective husband.

I’m about to move to follow her, as I’d been instructed, when Peeta’s hand settles lightly on my waist.

I stay with him as he says his farewells to yet another friend.  He is very well-known and well-liked here.  I can see it in their faces.  I can hear it in their greetings.

Their curious glances make me tense.  They wonder why Peeta is so protective of a mere slave woman, why he hovers so close and with such tender regard.  I wonder the same thing.


	19. Two Sons

(Katniss)

 

Peeta sits down beside me on the bench outside.  Within the house at our backs, Káto, Galinn, and Geira are meeting with her future husband and his father.  I hear talk of a bride-price, a morning-gift, and a dowry.  Surprisingly, I feel steadied by the fact that I can understand the gist of the discussion.

“Thank you,” I murmur.  At Peeta’s inquisitive look, I elaborate, “You taught me about the wedding things.  It is nice to listen and understand.”

He tilts his head to the side and peers at me in silent question.

I admit, “I do not understand much here.  You speak very fast.”

He chuckles and rubs his hand over his face.  “Sorry.  Yes, I suppose I am just a little excited.”

“For Geira?”  That seems strange, but also very… Peeta.

“Well, yes, but…”  He looks out at the street.  The evening breeze seems to blow his words away.  Perhaps, after speaking so much all day yesterday, he does not have any left to spare.  “We’ll leave in the morning,” he finally says, looking pleased.

That must be why he is so happy.  He misses the farmstead.  Or perhaps he’s just tired of looking out for me.  It galls me that I cannot walk down the street here unaccompanied.  In Samland, I had been free to move about wherever I liked.  But I am not in Samland anymore.  I am here, in the country of King Harald.  They call it Denmark. 

We bed down as we had the night before.  Peeta and I once again borrow some fleece from the benches beside the meal-fire where Dalla works.  She reminds him he could sleep in the longhouse with the free-born men, but he declines.

He leads me back to the granary and waits for me to climb the ladder to the loft.  “Come up,” I invite just like I had the night before, but he shakes his head, stubbornly settling beside the door to guard me.

“This is my place,” he insists and then he wishes me a good night.

I had not rested well last night and I do not expect that this night will be any better.  I miss seeing him across from me.  I miss the soft sounds of his breathing and the way he restlessly curls up on his left side and then shifts onto his right and then back again by morning.  I lie awake and think of him huddled under his fleece by the door.  I think of the night that I’d fought beside him.  I think of the rope he’d allowed me to bind him with.

And I get no sleep whatsoever when I realize that we are bound, he and I.  He let me fetter his hands, but then, somehow, he had wrapped himself around me.  Much like a mantle which keeps the wearer warm and safe.

I am ready for the dawn when it breaks.  I want to be away from this place and my sudden awareness of him.

“We’ll leave after the day-meal,” he tells me, frowning as he studies my face.  It feels grey to me.  Bruised.  “Did you not rest?”

With a sigh, I shake my head.  And then my eyes widen when he gently cups my cheek in his hand.

“I am sorry,” he whispers.  Does he know that he is to blame for my restless night?

The appraisal I give him is wary, but he doesn’t seem to mind.  Instead, he nods for me to follow him and we prepare the cart for our return.  At the day-meal, I see Geira speaking to the young man from the negotiations the day before.  Their fathers are merrily exchanging stories and jokes.

“I think it will be a good match,” Peeta offers, handing me a bowl and spoon.

“If it isn’t?”

He shrugs.  “They will divorce, but that is rare.  A marriage is hard work, but they seem willing enough.”

_Are you willing?_

The question, born of my own mind, startles me and I cough into my breakfast.

“All right?” he checks, rubbing my back.  I feel myself frowning again at his affectionate display.  I know that we touch often at the farmstead, but for some reason it seems more obvious in this place.

“Where is Káto?” I ask instead.

“Oh.  He’s speaking with his father.”

_Peeta’s_ father.  I remember that.  Káto and Peeta are brothers.  “You do not…?”  My voice dies slowly as I realize how hurtful the question is.

Peeta’s smile is soft and brave but sad.  “He cannot.  Káto’s mother still lives and she does not care for me much.”

I nod even though I do not really understand.

“Hey, Peeta!”

We both startle.

“Finnr!” he greets the newcomer.  I stare.  This is the man I’d stolen the knife from.  I school my face.  I refuse to look guilty.

“Káto is asking for you,” he says simply.  “At the lodge.”

“Oh.  All right.”  He and Finnr exchange a few words before the man moves on.  Once we are alone again, Peeta says quietly to me, “You could stay here with Geira while I’m gone or…?”

“I’ll go with you and, um, wait outside.”

With a decisive nod, he finishes his porridge and I rush to do the same.  It is true that I’m curious about Peeta’s father.  Clearly, Káto comes from a wealthy family as does Kolfrosta.  Who are these people who have taken me – so humbly and warmly – into their home?  I could probably just ask Peeta and he would tell me, but I don’t wish to upset him.  I’ve noticed that he invariably looks sad when speaking of his father.

To my surprise, Peeta leads me over to an elaborate longhouse behind the hall.  Every log has been painstakingly carved with figures and some details even lined with gold and silver.

“I won’t be long,” he promises as he gestures me to a bench.  He has a word with the guard at the door and then goes inside.  I wait in the sunlight, trying not to fidget or bounce my feet.

“Katniss?”

I look up, shading my eyes with my hand.  “Dalla?”

She smiles.  “Waiting for Peeta?”

“Um, yes.”

She nods and sinks down next to me.  I feel immediately calmer.  Dalla has that effect on people.  “I used to be nervous, too, in the shadow of this house,” she confides.

“It is very grand.”

“The inside is grander.  It is a shame Peeta couldn’t live here, growing up.”

“Where did he live?”

“With his mother and I.”  Her sigh is melancholy but in the shape of a smile.  “She was a wonderful woman.  So generous and strong.  Kind and wise.”

“Peeta also has those things,” I say without thinking.

“That he does.”  Dalla peers up at the carved eaves above us.  “You wouldn’t think it to look at him, but our dear King Harald is much the same.”

I have only seen him from a distance – yesterday when he’d passed through the streets to enter the longhouse where the free-born men and women had gathered for the Thing.  Peeta had sat outside with me.

But what has King Harald to do with Peeta’s character?

“He’s a great man, of course,” Dalla continues, “but also a humble one at heart.”

“You know him well?”

“I have served his family all my life.  Why, I was Káto’s wet nurse, once upon a time.”

“You… were?” I manage weakly.  A suspicion begins to take root in my mind.

“Oh, yes.  Although his wife hasn’t the patience for young children, Harald is a wonderful father.  It has been difficult for him, turning away from Peeta.”

“Um.”

“But now he is a freed man and Káto looks after him well.  They are a good family.”

All I can say is… “Yes.”

Movement and voices from within draw my attention.  Dalla and I watch in silence as Káto emerges from the house, still speaking with his father whose smile is kind and beard well-groomed.  I gape at Peeta hanging back unobtrusively and all I can think is…

I understand.  I understand now why Káto has so much and Peeta so little.

Their father is the king of Denmark.


	20. Freedom Price

(Katniss)

 

“Katniss?  Are you all right?”

I nod, even though I’m not.  Not really.  My mind is still whirling.

“Would you… would you like to take a walk?”  He asks the question softly, so softly that no one else around our campfire could have heard him.  Part of me knows what it sounds like.  If we leave together, Káto will give us a knowing smirk.  Geira will giggle and Galinn will raise his brows.

I don’t care.  “Yes, let’s walk.”

We don’t go far.  I can still see the flicker of the flames through the trees in the distance.  The night is silent and peaceful.  For the first time in days, I should be able to relax, but I can’t.  I keep thinking.  Thinking thinking thinking.

I am the daughter of King Everdeen of Samland.

Peeta and Káto are the sons of King Harald of Denmark.

They have welcomed me into their home, made me a part of their family.  I have gained their trust.

I shiver in the night air.  My gown and leg wrappings and tunic are no match for the lingering chill.  I wrap my arms around my waist and, an instant later, I feel Peeta’s warmth at my back, his hands on my shoulders, rubbing warmth into me through the fabric.  His breath sighs against my neck.  I close my eyes.

_Peeta._

I can see it now.  My mistake.  All of my mistakes.

I should have fought to the death outside the walls of my father’s fortress.

I should have leaped over the side of the ship on the journey to Trelleborg.

I should have died that night in the fort.

I should have told Káto my father’s name and title because then they might have ransomed me and sent me home – at great cost to my father’s kingdom, yes, but then I never would have befriended Peeta and I would not be feeling what I’m feeling now.  For him.

I need him.

I don’t know what to do.  Do I bury Katniss, the daughter of King Everdeen?  But what of my duty to my countrymen?  My father?  Prim?  I regularly serve the king’s own heir bowls of porridge and flasks of ale.  Isn’t it my duty to try to persuade him and, by extension, his father, to leave the people of Samland be?  Is it my duty to kill my father’s enemies if necessary?  The very idea—I cannot think it.  But if I say nothing and they discover me, will they not suspect the worst?  Won’t my willful silence damn me in their eyes?  Suppose they force me to tell them the secrets of my homeland?  How many days would it take me to die?  Would my mind and tongue even be my own by then?  What things would I say in my madness before the end?

Gods, help me.  I don’t know what to do.  Hiding within the king’s own family is tempting fate.  Surely, this cannot end well no matter the course taken.

“Katniss?”  Peeta holds open his mantle in silent welcome.  After a brief and useless hesitation, I step into its warmth and sigh.  I need a moment.  Just a moment to rest and then I will think of a way out of this.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.  “You were so happy at the fort and now…”  Now all I see are frown lines on his pale brow.

“I was happy,” he agrees, “because I accomplished something I thought would be impossible.  But now that it is done, I… I am sad.”

As am I.  Very sad.  Confused.  Hope is fading fast.

“Katniss, I… I have something to tell you,” Peeta says thickly, speaking as if his tongue has suddenly gone numb.  He draws a sharp, unsteady breath.  “I… have enough.”

“Enough…?” I echo.

“Coins.  For your freedom.”  His smile wobbles precariously but he clings to it.  “Káto has named a fair price.”

I stare at him, uncomprehending.

“Here,” he says.  The sides of his mantle drop as he fumbles with a small pouch on his belt, untying the cords and pressing it into my palm.  “Pay him half now and state your desire to be free.  Then, when we get back, he will prepare a sheep for the sacrifice and it will be done.  You’ll be a free woman again.”

“Peeta…”  Am I objecting to this?  I don’t know.  I’d had no idea before this moment that he’d been planning this, working so hard for this.  All those evenings spent weaving, all of the tools and spoons and fishhooks he’d sent back to the farmstead with me this past summer… all of it for this little bag of coins.

For me.

He confirms it easily, the words flowing like honey from his lips.  “I had a little saved for… um, but…  I’m giving it to you.  For your freedom.”  He offers me a sad but proud smile.

My mouth dries.  My tongue is heavy and useless.  I can go home.  He is, unknowingly, saving me all over again.

I gape.  I gawk.  He would do this for me?  But in exchange for what?  I already know the answer, but I have to ask.  I have to.

“And?” I rasp.

“And nothing else.  I know you wish to return to your family.  It will take more time to save the money for the journey and, if you agree, I would send you with Már or Finnr.  Someone I trust who would keep you safe.”

I can’t believe this.  With these coins, I am free to leave Káto’s house – and Peeta – forever.  What he is so selflessly offering…!

But, no.  No one is purely selfless and suddenly I burn to know why Peeta is doing this for me.  There must be a reason.  He must have a flaw.  No one is this perfect.  This generous.  This selfless.  Why me?  Why… all of it?  Why?

Probing awkwardly, I ask, “I will go back to my homeland?  You want this?”  I bite back a wince.  I must sound like an idiot.  I am so clumsy with his language.

A sheen of tears glints in the dim and distant firelight.  His eyes shine in the darkness.  “No.  I want you to stay with me, but I know you must go.  Your family is… there.  Mine is here.”

And he will not ask me to give up my father and sister for him.

“But, Katniss, you do not have to go.  You could stay…”  He seems to fight his own words, but they surge through his defenses.  “If you could do this – if you could be my wife—”  His voice is a torment to hear it is so broken yet persistent, held together by hope and the goodness that makes him who he is.  “I would give you only good things, Katniss.  Until the day I die.”

I don’t know what to say.  This is what he wants?  _Me?_   For his _wife?_

For a moment, all I can do is stare at the tears which tremble upon his lashes.

My heart speaks to me slowly, struggling through its pain.

If I stayed here, if I forgot my past, I could have Peeta.

I want Peeta.

There is no better man.

But if I choose him, I will never return to my home again, to Prim.  I will abandon my people to the Northmen and their raids.  I will likely suffer a fate worse than death if my lineage is ever discovered.  And when death does come for me, as it one day must, the ancestors will shun my spirit, pushing me into the cold depths of the sea to suffer alone and in the dark for all time.

I open my eyes.  Peeta seems to be holding his breath.  His hands now press mine to his chest.  He rubs his own over them back and forth to warm them.  He bites his lip.  I slide a hand out from under his and reach up to coax the pink flesh out from beneath his sharp, strong teeth.

I know what I should do, what I ought to do, what duty demands that I do…

But I can’t.

Peeta is offering me the only thing I want: him.  There is only one answer I have the strength to give him, no matter the consequences.  I am that selfish.

“Yes,” I tell him, watching his eyes widen and feeling his lips slacken with shock beneath my fingertips.  “I will stay.  Here.  With you.”

“You… you will?”

I nod once.  “Yes.”

The tears spill over his pale lashes but I’m not given the chance to wipe them away.  He hauls me into his arms, nuzzles my messily braided hair, and sobs with happiness.

“I will be a good husband to you, Katniss.  I swear it.”

Were it not for the collar around my throat to hold back the words, I would have told him he already is.

And were it not for the soft sound of approaching footsteps, I would have kissed him on the lips.


	21. The Tide Turns

(Katniss)

 

It happens so fast – in darkness – shuffling steps – the frantic pounding of my own pulse.

I spin in Peeta’s arms, pushing him behind me, keeping him safe.  I have no weapon, but I do not need one in order to borrow a blade or a spear from my enemy.

My enemy, who stands before us, shield raised and ax at the ready.

He hisses, “Katniss!  Stop!”

I stop.  I know this voice, this man.  His night-shadowed shape matches the one in my memory, but I do not let down my guard.  Peeta’s hands grip my shoulders and I realize he is but a heartbeat away from tossing me to safety.  The sound of my name has shocked him immobile just as it has me.

“Gale?” I call softly.  “What are you—?”

“Here,” he says, tossing the small ax to me.  I catch it before I can even command my hand to reach for it.  “Finish him!”

 _Finish him?  Finish who?_   But as I follow Gale’s gaze over my shoulder, I understand.

He is telling me to kill Peeta.

Kill.  Peeta.

No.

“Where are the others?” I hiss back, my mind working so quickly I have to blink my eyes to dispel the dizzying sensation of it.

At my call, one shadow and then another stirs in the forest.  Peeta and I are surrounded… by my own kin and clan.  I immediately recognize Boggs among the half a dozen men with bows, arrows, hatchets, knives, spears, and shields.  They’ve come dressed for war.

“Katniss!” Gale scolds me.  So impatient.  We are the same, he and I.  “If you don’t want to do it yourself, then step away!”

Just step away so they can kill him?  My muscles twitch and tremble with fury.   _No._

I shake my head and raise the ax.  My feet brace against the soft earth.  I’m ready for battle.  “No, Gale.  We are not killing him.”

His chin jerks back in affront.  “What?”

His gaze moves between us.  His scowl deepens.  Gale believes he’d interrupted an assault.  He thinks he has saved me from having to submit to my captor.  Peeta is the enemy.  _All_ Northmen are our enemy.  There is no room in his mind for considering the fact that I might have been in this man’s arms willingly.

Suddenly, this uncertain moment becomes even more precarious.  If I ally myself with Peeta, if I show any signs of friendship toward him, there will be repercussions, and they will not be pleasant.  But I refuse to back down now.

“Rope,” I demand.  “Throw me a length of rope.”

“Katniss—”

“Am I not the daughter of our king?” I choke out, trying to stay quiet.  If Káto hears us, he will come and investigate… and he will die.  “Would I really endanger the lives of my own kinsmen?”

No one answers.

I stiffen.  “If you believe that, then just turn around and go back home without me.”

It occurs to me that I could send them away.  I could tell them to leave me here with Peeta.  But I know they will not listen.  They will not believe me.  Gale will think I am trying to be noble and sacrifice myself to save them.  And if I know anything it’s that he would never let himself owe me such a debt.  To cancel it, he will not hesitate to use force to spirit me away from this place and Peeta.

Peeta, who has just promised to be my husband.  Peeta, to whom I have promised to be a wife.  He will not let them take me.  I can feel it in the iron grip of his fingers curling over my shoulders.  Unarmed and outnumbered, he would fight them… and he would lose.

I will not let Peeta die for me.

That leaves me with only one remaining option.

Gale curses softly.  “No, we do not believe that, but damn it Katniss—!”

“Rope,” I say again.  The moment stretches painfully taut.  The silence reverberates in my ears.

A soft whoosh and lifeless thud: a length of rope has been tossed at my feet.  I step over it and turn, dislodging Peeta’s hands from my shoulders and bringing my free hand up to his chest.  He must not move suddenly or without permission.  He must do exactly as I say.  “Pick up the rope,” I tell him in his language.

He hesitates.  “Katniss, what is this?”

“I am saving your life.”

He shakes his head in refusal and denial.  I grit my teeth.  We are breathing on borrowed time.  Lingering here only endangers his life, his brother’s life, and the lives of my kinsmen.  My heart hardens.

“You,” I interject harshly, “did not give _me_ a choice.”

His jaw clenches.

I jerk my chin in the direction of his brother’s camp.  He glances behind him.  His shoulders droop.  He will not risk Káto’s life.

The ax stays in my hand as he bends to retrieve the rope.  I keep a firm grip on the weapon not because I am willing to use it on him, but because if I tuck it away too soon, Gale will not wait until later to ask me exactly what sort of moment he had interrupted, and I do not have the patience or the wits to deflect his questions now.

When Peeta straightens, he holds out his arms and offers me his wrists.  It is a familiar pose.  He had stood before me thus once before in order to build trust between us.  Now, with the same gesture, I fear I am destroying it.

I cannot look him in the eye as coil the rope around his forearms.  Once I have a firm grip on the loose ends, I slide the ax into the belt at my waist and tie a knot high up, beneath his forearms where he will not be able to get at it with his teeth or pick at it with his fingers.  That will satisfy the others.

“Over here,” Gale coaches me.  “Tie him to this tree and let’s go.”

I scowl at him and note the square of fabric in his hand.  A gag.

Now, in this moment, I meet Peeta’s eyes.  He is frightened but not _of_ me – _for_ me.  My first reaction is to scoff.  I am in command of these men.  As the king’s daughter I am their sovereign… but am I?  I do not know if my father still lives.  I do not know under whom Gale serves.  Or if he has broken his oath of fealty to a new sovereign to come for me.  I do not know what they want.  I do not know who I can trust.

How do I know Gale won’t slit Peeta’s throat the moment my back is turned?

I panic.

“He is coming with us,” I decide, shoving Gale’s hand away and tightening my hold on the ropes.

A moment of shocked silence swells and then bursts.  “We don’t have provisions for a hostage,” Gale argues calmly.  Too calmly.  He’s beginning to speculate on Peeta’s value.

Let him speculate.  If he assumes Peeta is of some worth to us alive, then he will be less likely to kill him.  I whisper furiously, “Then I will share my portion with him!  Let’s go.”

Because it is too dangerous for us to continue this discussion here, he relents and waves us deeper into the forest.  Peeta stumbles along behind me, his left leg making him clumsy.  I do not allow him to slow us down.  Value or not, Gale will still kill him if he proves to be a bothersome captive.

I cannot let Peeta die.

I need him.

With every step that becomes more and more clear.  I am uncertain of my allies, my family, and my homeland.  I am not uncertain of Peeta.  This is my most selfish act yet: taking him from his family so that I might face the unknown without flinching.

The horses are not far.  Seeing them tethered to the trees, Peeta trips.  I can hear him swallow thickly.  I don’t even know if he can ride.

Hating myself for the rough treatment I am giving him, I shove Peeta toward the strongest horse and motion for him to place his booted foot in my hands.  He hesitates and our eyes meet.  He does not ask me to leave him behind and, in that moment, I know I am forgiven.  He cannot bear to let me go without knowing that I will be safe.

“I’m too heavy,” he objects.

“I’m strong,” I answer.

He relents on a sigh and I have to use every bit of determination and muscle that I have, but I boost him up.  Thom hurries to untangle the reins from the bough.  Yanking them out of his hand with a curt nod of acknowledgment, I hoist myself up onto the horse’s back behind my captive, caging him in.

“Knees close, tight.  And relax – your back,” I whisper.  I don’t wait for him to ask questions.

With the animal’s first loping stride, my hips slip down and mold against his.  I rock against him, guiding the motions of his body, urging him not to fight against the horse’s rolling gait.

He gasps softly.  “Katniss…”

“Hush.”  We will talk later, he and I, but for now we must ride.  It’s a long journey back to Samland and I have a lot of thinking to do.


	22. Faith in Strangers

(Katniss)

 

I do not deserve Peeta.  That has always been clear to me but never more than it is now.

“I’m not hungry,” he insists.

“You are if I say you are,” I spit, startling him.  He’s never seen me like this.  Perhaps he’ll rethink his affection for me.

His face softens.  The warmth in his smile rivals that coming from the campfire.  Although he says nothing, I know that he _knows._   He knows what I would do for him.  He knows that I am protecting him.

Rather than reassured, I am irritated.  I shove the meat into his hands.  “You will eat and continue your strength for me,” I insist, standing before he can fling the food back into my lap.

“Keep my strength,” he corrects with a playful twitch of his lips.

A bubble of sudden humor threatens to eke past my lips.  I clamp my mouth shut and stomp away.  I have no clear destination in mind, only to force Peeta to eat his portion now that we’ve stopped long enough to hunt for fresh meat.

Now, just like at any other time, I can sense someone’s gaze upon me.  Perhaps it’s Boggs.  There’s also Mason and his son, Mitchell.  Chaff, Thresh, and Thom.  Any one of them could be watching me.  I don’t glance around to check.  As I pass by, Gale stretches out a leg and attempts to trip me.  I leap over his thrashing feet and glower.

“Amusing yourself?” I bark.

He laughs.  “You’ve never asked me to dance.  I was curious if you even could,” he drawls with a shrug.

I spitefully leave Gale sprawled at the base of his chosen tree and continue onward.  My plan now is to take my time stretching my legs, then I’ll check on Peeta and—

“Where are you going in such a hurry?”

Against my better judgment, I slow my steps and let Gale catch up.

“You plan on taking that thing off?” he asks, gesturing to the collar still around my neck.

I gape at him.  I’d completely forgotten about it, actually.  “It has to be cut off, I think.  Unless you’ve got some blacksmith tools shoved down your boot.”

“Not a one.”  He pulls a knife from his belt and holds it up along with an arched brow of inquiry.

I nod my head and stand still.  Gale steps up and stands close.  Very close.  I cross my arms over my chest and tilt my head away.  Across the small field, I meet Peeta’s stare.

I look away first.

“If this is what they do to guests, I don’t think I want to be one,” Gale mutters angrily.  I watch out of the corner of my eye as he slides the blade beneath the edge of the leather and begins sawing.

I consider telling him that it could have been a lot worse.  But if I do, he’ll want to know what I mean by that and then I’ll have to tell him about all the ways Peeta has watched out for me.  I don’t want to share that with him.  He wouldn’t understand and I’d only end up having to defend myself.  Then I’d get angry because he’d use that tone of his that makes me feel stupid.

Sometimes it’s difficult to remember exactly why he and I are friends at all.

“So,” he says as I stubbornly stare off into the dark woods in silence.

I glare in response to his expectant smirk.  “What?”

He slowly works through the thick, hardened leather.  “When are you going to tell me why Goldie Locks over there is making the trip with us?”

“He’s a guarantee,” I reply vaguely.

“Against what?”

“Harald.”

The knife pauses.  “Harald of Denmark?  What does he care if we’ve got some crippled countryman of his?”

I wait for Gale to resume cutting through the collar.  When he doesn’t, I give him a pointed look.  Once the blade begins to move again, I tell him, “He’ll care.  And he’s not a cripple.”

“He falls on his ass every time he gets off a horse.  He’s a cripple.”

I refuse to argue with Gale over this.  “He is important.”

“How?”

“You’ll have to trust me.”

“Like he does?”  Gale’s jaw muscles bunch and I blink.  I hadn’t expected him to notice, but then again I suppose Peeta hasn’t been the most fear-stricken of hostages.

He’d been angry on the second day when I’d continued to refuse to talk to him in the Northmen’s language.  In fact, I’d pretended not to understand him at all.  It had been easy enough to ignore his entreaties – “Please, Katniss.  Just tell me who they are and what they want from you.”  And then a little less easy to dismiss his resentful accusations – “I’ve been more than patient.  You think ignorance will benefit me?  Unless it’s that _you_ don’t even know what they want.  By the all-father, just _tell_ me.  We’ll find a way!”  But then he’d switched to telling jokes and I’d nearly bitten through my cheek to keep from laughing… until I’d turned my thoughts toward home and family and I’d let myself feel fear on their behalf. 

Gale had assured me he’d left them safe and sound with Haymitch in command, but anything could have befallen them in the meantime.  Perhaps Alma, ever ambitious and with many followers from among the tribes, has been raiding our village or inciting an uprising.  My father could be dead.  Prim could be in danger.

Those thoughts had killed any possibility of laughter from me.

Peeta had apologized later during a short rest break, taking special care to look contrite, and since we’d had a moment of privacy before mounting up once again, I’d said, “If you can trust me, then trust me.  I’ll protect you.”

“And if I can’t trust you?” he’d asked with narrowed eyes.  His sidelong gaze had been a caress that I’d felt even as I’d resolutely faced forward.

“Then there is nothing to say.”

“Will you tell me everything?” he’d softly begged.

“When it is safe,” I’d promised.  We’d shared a glance and then Gale had stormed past us on the way to his mount.  We’d ridden hard for another day before our food stores had grown too small to ignore.

It would have felt good to go hunting again, but I hadn’t been able to bring myself to leave Peeta alone.  The suspicious looks everyone has been giving him speak clearly of his precarious safety.  I cannot let him out of my sight.

“He trusts you,” Gale insists.  “Why?”

“Probably because he knows I don’t break my word.”

“Just what have you promised him?”

I don’t deign to answer that.

With a final jerk of the knife and a flick of his wrist, the leather snaps from around my neck.  He twirls the broken collar lazily in the air, looking very pleased with himself.  “All done.”  Offering it to me with a mocking flourish, he inquires, “A trinket from your travels?”

Just to wipe the smirk off his face, I grab it from his hand.  “Thank you.”  I somehow manage a pleasant tone even though I’m glaring at him.

Gale huffs out a frustrated breath and runs his hands over his face.  “Just… are you sure Harald will bargain for his life?”

“I told you.  He is important.”

“Tell me how so.”

I ignore his request.  It’s either that or remind him of the fact that I haven’t trusted him in months.  I’m a little out of practice.  “How much further?”

Gale sighs.  “Eight more days, maybe more depending on the state of the rivers.”

I nod.  “Then we’d all better get some sleep.”

He doesn’t say a thing as I make my way back over to Peeta.

When I sink down into the soggy, wet windfall beside him, he glances at my unburdened neck.  I meet his gaze out of the corner of my eye and we share a small smile.

“What shall we do with this?” I ask him, holding up the collar for his inspection.

A light flickers in his eyes.  “Burn it.”

I toss it toward the flames and it bounces into the campfire.  Beside me, Peeta lets out a breath so deep I have to wonder for how many years he’s been hoarding it.

We watch as the collar smolders and slowly chars.  Across the fire, Gale watches us.  So do the others.  I can hear the recrimination in the resounding silence.  They do not understand why I insist on bringing Peeta with us.  He had not been part of their plan.  This – my rescue – should be a happy occasion and yet everyone is quiet, wary, cautious.  They are just beginning to realize that they do not know me anymore.

I know exactly how they feel.  Sometimes, I am a stranger even to myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little something here about the references to death and religion in this fic.
> 
> I've made Katniss' people fictional!pagan and totally created the details about their funeral rites (the burial mounds) and afterlife (hell = being banished to the depths of the ocean).
> 
> BUT! For Peeta (and Norse people), they would (usually) burn their dead in pyres. So! When he tells Katniss to burn the slave collar that used to be his, he is actually burying his past and laying it to rest. Goooooo, Peeta!


	23. Homecoming

(Katniss)

 

The sight of it hurts so much it nearly knocks me off of my horse.  If not for Peeta’s sudden grip on my arm, I would have slid off and landed in a heap in the dirt.  My father’s fortress still stands.  His banner still flies from the watch tower.

Oh.  Thank you, gods.

My first impulse is to kick my horse into a run, to fly through the village and up to the fortress gates, but I hold back.  I’m trembling and I know Peeta can feel it against his broad back, but he says nothing.  I have been considering this moment for days and I am still unsure as to which course of action to take.  I am wary of accompanying Gale and the others into the fortress.  I do not want to believe they would betray me, but I must consider it.  For Peeta’s sake, I must be cautious.  I must be patient.

“Katniss, come on,” Gale invites with a jerk of his head.

I don’t answer.  Instead, I nudge our tired horse off of the road and into the woods in the first steps of what will be a lazily conducted circle around the entire village.

Gale blows out a breath in aggravation.  “Shall we wait here for you, then?”

“No,” I say.  “I’ll come in my own time.  Go ahead.  And say nothing of me.”

“What?”

I maneuver the horse around so I can look him in the eye.  I have a bow now.  I have arrows.  I can look after Peeta here in the forest until I am sure it is safe to approach the fortress.  “Go on,” I repeat.

“I can’t just leave you out here.”  His grey eyes flick over to Peeta.

I try not to tense at the implication.  “You can and you will.  Say nothing of me.  I will see you again soon.”

With that, I nudge the horse into a lope.  This is a test.  Peeta must sense it because he is stiff, waiting like I am for the first spear, the first arrow.  It does not come.  Gale and his men have let us go.

But of course they have.  Gale can track us with ease.

I stay off of the woodland paths until we are out of sight of my dumbfounded rescuers.  Then we ride for an hour along the hillside deer trails until I’ve found the place where Prim and I used to come and play when we were little.  It’s a small, cavern-like space in the middle of a copse of trees.  Some are awkwardly bent with age and others supple with youth.  Their canopy interlocks overhead and although the boughs are still bare, the shadows they cast are dark.  I do not know why nothing grows in the center.  Perhaps there is a grave here even though the earth is not rounded.

Peeta waits for me to dismount first before slowly pulling his right leg over the back of the horse.  I hold our mount steady with one hand on the reins and the other offered up.  He will stumble when his feet hit the ground, but he will not fall.  This is the system we have worked out over the past dozen days of travel.

He slides down and into my arms, taking a single, faltering step, but his grip on the saddle and my hand on his arm saves us from an awkward stagger.  I quickly untie his hands and loop the rope around the horse’s neck so I can remove the bridle.  Peeta stretches as I pull the worn saddle off the gelding’s back.  We rub down his matted coat with handfuls of dry leaves in silence.  This is another routine we have created during our journey and we finish even faster than usual since his arms are no longer bound.

I gesture for Peeta to follow me deeper into the trees, squeezing between them until we are hidden from the world in the natural den.  It is the same as I remember.  I breathe a sigh of relief before I turn to Peeta and catch him gently squeezing his wrists, first one and then the other.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, reaching out and cradling his forearms in a gentle grasp.  I know how the rope chafes and stings and bruises.  Even though I’ve been careful to make sure there is a layer of cloth between the bindings and his skin, his flesh must be raw from the daily torment… and yet he has not once complained about it.

He lets out a breath, but makes no move to put space between us.  I look into his eyes and his concern melts what little resistance I have.  I should be angry with him for it; I can take care of both of us.  He should have confidence in me, but I know that’s not why he worries.

“You do not trust him?  Gale?” he whispers.

I sigh.  “I want to.”

“But?”

“But maybe it is a trap.  I must see my sister.  I don’t know if she is safe.”

He nods.  “What can I do?”

My lips stretch into a brief, tired smile.  “This.  It is enough.”

“No, not quite,” he argues, and I let him pull me close.  I press my ear to his chest and listen to the thuds of his heart.  “This is better.”

I agree.

After a long moment, he softly dares, “Why did they come for you?”

How much do I tell him?

I hesitate.  I hesitate because I do not _want_ to tell him.  I do not want to stop being the Katniss he grew to care for.  I don’t want to say the words and make it real because my lineage is just one more obstacle to overcome.  He will have so many questions.  I do not know if I have the answers.

Peeta’s hands smooth over my shoulders and back, relaxing my tired muscles.  I wind my arms around his waist and do the same.  He must be exhausted and sore.

If I am quiet long enough, maybe he will forget his question.  I hide my face in the fur trimming of his mantle, denying him an explanation.

But Peeta, being as quick as he is, guesses with frightening accuracy, “They had orders to bring you back?”

I nod wearily.

“What if you had refused?”

I shake my head.  “No choice.”

“I’d thought so, too.”  Peeta sighs out a long breath.  “You have so many secrets, Katniss.”

“No.  Not secrets.  I don’t want…”  I bite the inside of my cheek and align my thoughts into unfamiliar words.  “It was simple at your brother’s farmstead.  It is not simple now.”

Peeta holds me tighter.  “Gale let you go.”

I scowl.  If he’d intended for that to cheer me, he has failed.  “He can find us.  Hunt us.”  I just don’t know if he _will._   Or, if not Gale, then who?  Who might be waiting for my return with a spear point trained upon my chest or back?

Peeta leans away and meets my gaze.  “Then we have only bought ourselves a little time to find your sister.”

“Yes.”

He gives me a brave smile.  “I will follow you.”

Again, he proves that I do not deserve him.  “You are not angry.  Why?”

“Should I be?”

“I was.  When you saved me.”

“Katniss, they would have killed you.”

I’m not sure who he means or to which life-threatening event he is referring.  Is he talking about the knife I’d stolen and used at Trelleborg or Gale’s sudden appearance in the forest near our camp?  Does it matter?  No, probably not.  Still, I am determined to dig until I find some fury in him.

“I stole you.  Your family, your home…!  Peeta, be angry.”

His head dips but not before I see a flash of something in his eyes.  I cannot honestly say if it is rage or some other kind of passion.

“They don’t need me,” he whispers.  I feel his chest expand with his next breath and I find myself caught in the snare of his tired, but blazing blue eyes.  “Do you, Katniss?  Is that why I’m here?”

I nod.  After everything he has done and endured for me, I won’t deny him this.  “Yes.  I need you.”

Amazingly, he can still smile.  His hands lift and frame my face gently.  His forehead presses against mine and I watch his eyes close and his pale lashes brush his cheeks.  He is sweaty and dirty.  His hair is matted and windblown.  His clothes are filthy and reek of dust and horse lather.  His body trembles with exhaustion and his left leg must be roaring in agony.  His breath is stale.  His lips are chapped and cracked.

He is beautiful.  Beautiful and perfect.

“Then I am not angry, Katniss.  How could I be?  This is all I want.”

I want to believe him, but I have been in his place: in a strange land where every unrecognizable word feels like a strike against you and every look hides a menacing intent.  He will come to regret his rash promise.

But he will not regret it today.  Today, he is mine and I greedily accept that.

“Sleep,” I tell him.

“But Gale…?”

“There is time.  We will rest.”

With a tug on his tunic sleeves, I pull him down to the ground and invite myself beneath the mantle he still wears.  His cheeks pinken as he holds his arms open.  I hesitate long enough to enjoy the way his face gives his thoughts away, but then I tuck myself up against his chest and he sighs happily against my temple.

For a long moment, we do not speak.  And then—

“Are you promised to him?”

“Who?” I mumble into his soiled tunic.

He swallows.  “Gale.”

I tense.  “No.”  Although I do not lie, I know Peeta would get a different answer were he to ask anyone else.  Luckily, he cannot.

“Oh.  Um.  Does that mean you are not betrothed?”

I lift my head and look into his eyes.  He is biting his lip again.  A lank and dirty lock of hair falls across his grimy brow.  “I am,” I confess, wondering if he will hear the truth in my words.

He doesn’t.  He gasps softly, sucking a sudden sob back down into his gut.  “Oh.  I… oh.”

I reach up and push his hair away from his eyes so that he may see clearly.  “To you,” I remind him.  “I am betrothed to you.”

He gapes at me.

“Is that bad?” I half tease, half inquire.

His breaths suddenly come in short bursts of relief.  His arms tighten around me.  “No, no, it’s perfect.  Just… I have nothing to offer your family for the bride-price or you for the morning-gift, so—”

“You are returning me to them.  For the bride-price, that is enough.”  I lay my head on his shoulder and smile.  “And for the morning-gift, you already paid it, Peeta.  You saved my life.  You make me safe.”  His palm curves around the base of my skull and his fingers massage their way into my braid.  “You paid it twice over.”  At the very least.  Surely, what he has done for me will be enough.  Surely, I’ll be allowed to keep him.

Surely.

He sniffles softly, presses his rough, warm lips to my forehead, and then we sleep.


	24. A Meeting between Sisters

(Katniss)

 

It’s not yet dark when I wake and carefully slip from Peeta’s embrace.  He snores softly once and then settles again.  I move to the edge of the tiny clearing and peer through the trees at the gently sloping valley below.  People are gathering water for their nightly ablutions.  Soon, supper will follow.  Surely, by then Prim will see that Gale has returned and her curiosity will drive her out-of-doors.  All I need is one glimpse of her.  Once I know where she is, I can approach in the night and use the bird call we share, our secret over the years.

I wait.

I am in luck.

She exits from the kitchen door of our father’s great dining hall, a basket slung over her arm, and jogs across the yard toward the gates.  I watch as she passes through unimpeded.  The guards do not ask her where she is going unaccompanied.

This is either a very good sign, or a very bad one.  Either our father still lives and Prim is still in command of her own comings and goings, or she and the rest of the men of the fortress are under strict orders to make it appear that way.

So far, Gale has passed my tests.  Now it is my sister’s turn.

She hurries through the streets, her eyes up and locked onto the line of trees.  She is looking this way and she could probably see my hand if I were to wave.  I don’t.  I watch her approach, studying her face and the rhythm of her walk.

She is anxious, worried, but so hopeful.  Scanning the village over her shoulder, I can see that no one has followed her, nor does she seem concerned about being observed.  She is getting close now.  Soft, golden light from the setting sun reflects off of the unshed tears in her eyes.

I decide to wake Peeta.

I do this gently, with a hand on his shoulder and a finger pressed to his lips.  “My sister is coming.”

“Should I go?” he mouths quietly.

“No.”  I pull the ax from my belt and tuck it beneath his cape.  “I think she is alone, but if she isn’t… if someone follows her…”

He nods.  His fingers trail down my arm and clutch briefly at mine as I move back toward the ledge overlooking my father’s fortress.  Prim is struggling up the hill.  I wait until she spots the horse first, and then I softly call her name.

The basket she’s carrying falls to the ground.

“Katniss!” she sobs on a whisper, throwing her arms around me.  I urge her under the cover of the trees.  “You’re really here!  Really, really!  I _missed_ you!  I was _so_ worried!  I—”  She stiffens.  “Who is that?”

I laugh softly, holding my little sister close.  She hasn’t changed a bit.  “This is Peeta.”

She looks to me for reassurance.

“He is a friend,” I insist, attempting to alleviate her confusion.  Because Prim knows me better than anyone, she does not ask if he is my husband.  I have never made a secret of my opinion on the necessary evil that is marriage.  If I’d had a husband, I surely would have left the lout behind.  But she does not know Peeta yet, so she cannot imagine a man who could possibly be capable of changing my mind.

“Peeta, this is Primrose, my sister,” I say in his language.

Prim gasps and gapes at me.  “You speak his words?”

“Yes, he taught me.”

Turning back to him, she offers him a salute and a nod.  “Peeta, friend of Katniss,” she greets formally.

Peeta slowly stands and bows his head.  “Primrose.  Sister of Katniss.”

I beam even as Primrose gawks at the size of him.  He is not as tall as Káto, but he is frighteningly strong.

“You remember some of my language,” I accuse happily.

“Only a few words,” he admits with a crooked smile.

When Prim jostles me with her elbow, I startle.  “I almost forgot!” she says with a burgeoning grin and then ducks out beyond the shelter of the trees to fetch the dropped basket.  “Here.  I brought dinner, just in case I found you.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s not much.  I wasn’t even sure you’d be here, let alone that you’d have a… um, _friend.”_

I roll my eyes.  “This is fine,” I assure her, poking my fingers into the basket.  I take a small taste of everything.  All is as I remember it.  Sure that it is safe for us to eat, I pass it to Peeta.  “Eat first.  I will speak to my sister.”

With a nod of thanks, he slowly lowers himself to the ground, settling the basket on his good thigh.

“Is he injured?” Prim asks with a worried frown.

Oh, how I love my sister.  She knows so little about this strange man who is sharing the meal she’d brought for me, and yet she cares for his wellbeing.  “No,” I assure her.  “It’s an old injury, and we have ridden a long way.”

“From where?”

“Denmark.  The country of Harald Bluetooth.”

She blinks at me, wide-eyed.  We have all heard the stories of King Harald’s exploits.  Having seen him in the flesh speaking warmly to his sons, I wonder for the first time if they could really be true.  It seems hard to believe that a man with a smile like Peeta’s could conquer such a vast land and be so relentlessly feared.

I turn my thoughts away from King Harald and toward more immediate concerns.  “Why did you think I would be here?” I ask her.

Prim shrugs, helpless with giddiness.  “This is the only place I could remember us spending time together in the woods.  Once I saw Gale, I thought maybe…”  She sighs.  “Haymitch teaches us to be cautious.  I thought you might have listened to him for once and told Gale to keep quiet.”

“Yes.  I asked him not to speak of my return.”  I expect Prim to react with confusion or exasperation.  Instead, there is a warning in her eyes, a loss of innocence.  Something has happened, something that has made my generous sister wary.  “Tell me everything,” I demand urgently.  “How is father?  And Haymitch?”

“Oh, Katniss!  You must return quickly.  Father is so ill.  He can no longer chew or swallow without aid.  And Haymitch has his hands full with Alma’s son, Cray.  He has been loitering here drinking our beer and eating our goats for nearly a fortnight, awaiting an audience.”

“Cray is here?  What does he want from us?”

“You,” Prim replies.

“What?”

“We never told anyone that you’d been taken.  It was Haymitch’s idea.  We said you were ill like our father.  Cray heard this news and now he has come bearing medicine he says will cure you.  In return, he wants to be your husband.”

“And his father, Alma, will rule us all.  Yes, I see.”

“Not quite, you don’t.”

Something in Prim’s tone alerts me to a greater threat.  “No?”  I think for a moment.

She gives me a hint.  “You were right to check the food.”

“Was I?”  If that is the case, then…  “This medicine Cray has brought, is it good?”

She shakes her head.  “I doubt it.  I have seen a small sample.  It looks to be poison.  He recommended that you be treated with it first since you had not been ill for as long.  I think he… um…”

I finish the thought.  “He wanted me dead first so I could not recover and oppose his father.”  And with our own father so weak and Primrose so young, only Haymitch and Gale would have stood a chance of holding onto the fortress and peace.  A very small chance.  Almost none whatsoever.  Rebellion would have quickly followed in the wake of Alma’s charismatic words.  The man has always had a strong, if small, following.  This is his chance to seize power over Samland.  Of course he would take it.

Primrose assures me, “Haymitch and I are very careful with father’s food and drink.”

“Good girl,” I praise, rubbing her hunched shoulders in comfort.  Part of me is horrified that she has had to deal with threats such as these in our own father’s house, but part of me is vindicated because my caution has been well spent.

“Haymitch and I have been trying to fool them.  Give them false information and other rumors.”

“Such as?”

“That father is training you in secret to rule.  That you have gone abroad.  That you mourn the deaths of our kinsmen still, that you loved one of them deeply—”

I hold up a hand.  I’ve heard enough.  I already know which rumor will be the most useful.

Primrose twists the fabric of her apron between her small, soft hands.  Healer’s hands.  “I’m so glad you’re back,” she whispers.  “Gale was gone so long.  From before the first thaw, even.  Rory wondered if we would ever see him again.”

I take that and add it to the scale weighted in Gale’s favor.  He’d left long before Cray had made his appearance.  Perhaps I can allow myself to trust my childhood friend again.

Or, perhaps not.  With Peeta by my side, our friendship feels like it has been strained to the breaking point.  Gale does not tolerate foreigners and he will not like my strategy for dealing with Alma and Cray.  Not at all.

Clearing my throat, I quiz her, “What of our forces?  How many men does Haymitch count?”

“Katniss… we lost so many in the attack last spring, and then nearly half have gone willingly to Alma’s side.  Our people are frightened.  They know the men from the north will be back.  They are saying they’d rather give up their goods than fight.  Alma assures them that he has a plan to defeat the Northmen in battle.”

“A fool’s plan,” I grumble.  I have seen their fortress and counted their soldiers.  They can – and will – crush us without any effort at all.

“Not so foolish if more than five hundred men believe him.”

I curse softly.  This will not be an easy knot to untangle.  Taking a deep breath, I look over my shoulder at Peeta.  He is watching our exchange worriedly, a small bit of cheese pinched between his fingers, forgotten.

“Katniss?” he asks tentatively.

I bite the inside of my cheek.  I think I know what I have to do, but I do not know how to tell him.  I only know simple words, and this is no simple problem.  “I need you,” I tell him bluntly.  “A lot.”

He seems shocked by my candor, but there isn’t time for me to try to be tactful.  Especially since I usually fail at it abysmally.

Crossing the distance between us, I crouch down before him.  Our eyes are level.  “Do you trust me?”

He blinks once and then his expression hardens with determination.  “Yes.”

I turn and ask Prim, “Leave your window unlatched tonight.”

“Katniss,” Prim rasps anxiously, “what are you planning?”

I smile.  “An invasion.”


	25. Into the Fortress

(Katniss)

 

This is the ultimate sign of trust.

I pause beside a seemingly barren section of the fortress wall and meet Peeta’s gaze.  His eyes are wide in the moonlight, as if he senses the secret I am about to reveal.  I could ask him to close his eyes.  I should.  For the sake of the people who depend on this fortress for their safety, for my father, for Prim.

But he has earned my trust a hundred times over – no, _three_ hundred _and one_ times over.  I’ll not belittle that.

“You can close your eyes and turn your back, or you can watch,” I whisper, giving him the choice.

Without a word, he turns his back to me.

My breath leaves me like a crack of thunder exploding through the night.  I should have known he would relinquish his right to this.  He has enough imagination to understand and enough compassion to make this as easy as possible for me.

I turn back to the wall, my fingers sliding through the cracks between the timbers, seeking the lock my father had shown me one quiet afternoon about two years ago, back when he’d still been strong enough to walk about freely.

“Only in the case of dire circumstances, Katniss,” he had warned me.  “Never use this for me or yourself.  This is a weapon that must benefit our people.”

It is our people who are in danger now.  In danger of being riled up to fight and die in pointless battles so that a self-loving whoreson can sit upon a chair which will give him the right to take whatever pleases him.

Killing a man like Alma would be personally satisfying, but it would mean nothing so long as his followers remain true.  If fear is what has driven people to rally around him, then I will counter with something better.  Something no man with loved ones can refuse.

I will give instead of take.  I will offer instead of use.  Just as Peeta had won me over with his generosity and patience and goodness, I will do the same for the tribes.  He has already shown me how.

I wince as something small and many-legged crawls over my fingers, but I don’t jerk my hand back.  The latch is here… somewhere…

_Click!_

Ah-ha!

I reach down and grasp a natural knot in the log and lever upward, swinging the timber toward myself.  A narrow opening is revealed.  It is only the width of an average tree and the height of a small man – Peeta will have to go through hunched and sideways.  I reach for his arm and am surprised when he keeps his eyes squeezed tightly shut, but I do not argue.  I guide him through the doorway, telling him to duck his head and lift his feet.

I follow him, gingerly pulling the timber back into place and listening to the sound of the lock reengaging.  I then move us both into the shadows, ducking behind a dung heap before I whisper for Peeta to open his eyes.  Indulging in a moment, I briefly place my palms upon his cheeks.  My smile is so wide my cheeks hurt.

“Thank you,” I tell him.

He returns my grin and then I’m pulling him behind me, weaving between the stables and the blacksmith’s workshop toward the outer wall of the towering keep.  Prim’s room faces the archery shed and targets.  I used to tease her about improving her aim just by watching me and the others practice early in the morning.  It hadn’t been until Rory had taken up the bow that I’d figured out why my sister likes the location of her room so much.

We crouch behind a bale of straw and Peeta waits as I check the position of the guards.  With his golden hair – even as dirty as it is – he’ll be spotted easily in the light from the distant torches and I am unarmed.  The bow and arrows have been hidden in a hollow log in the forest.  I would like to believe that even if I’d brought them with me, I wouldn’t have used them on my own people, but just imagining a spear pointed at Peeta’s chest scares me so badly I fear I would break my resolution without a thought.  So, wisely or not, I had left the weapons behind. The horse as well.  When I speak to Gale in the morning, I will ask him to send one of his brothers out to fetch it.

However, morning feels a very long way off right now.  It is a dark, moonless night.  I can smell the promise of snow in the air.  The wind is cold and the men on the walls are preoccupied with keeping warm.  I only have to wait for one watchman to turn completely away.  He does his job well, guarding us from what lurks beyond the fortress, not what is already within it.

I grasp the sleeve of Peeta’s tunic and scamper across the bailey.  The window to my sister’s room is up high, but she’d placed a barrel beneath it for us as I’d asked.  We move quickly into the shadows of the wall and then wait again, charting the guards’ inattention.

Still undetected, I start to climb onto the barrel, jerking in surprise when Peeta’s hands grasp my hips and he more or less lifts me up onto the thing.  I decide I’ll scold him later for not warning me in advance.  The window is unlatched and I pull myself through before turning and offering Peeta a hand.  It’s a tighter fit for him, but he squeezes through it in relative silence.

Prim stands up from the side of her bed, still dressed as she had been in the forest.  It is pitch black in the room, so I keep a firm grip on Peeta’s arm until Prim has lit a lamp and closed the shutters behind us.  She doesn’t speak.  We’d gone over these arrangements already and as much as I want to race off to my father’s room to see him, I know I can’t let him see me like _this._

I accept the second lamp Prim offers me and step behind a privacy screen.  The bathwater is still warm and I hurriedly strip off my tattered, smelly, and soiled clothes.  I wash up as quickly as I can and then dress in the shift and gown that Prim had chosen for me.  I step back out scowling.

“Prim…” I begin, picking at the lush, green fabric of the skirt.  I hate elaborate gowns.

“I know, I know.  You abhor the fact that you’re lovely,” my sister commiserates with a grin.  “Come let me comb your hair.  Let Peeta have his turn in the bath.”

Speaking of which… “I’m sorry, Peeta.  We must share the water.”

“Hm?”

Is it my imagination or is he actually a little glassy-eyed?  “Peeta?”

“Oh.  Yes.  Fine.”

Prim snorts with laughter behind her hands.  I gesture him toward the privacy screen.  “There are clothes for you there.  The bath is not… warm.  Or clean.  You can have another later.”

He walks backward toward the screen, not taking his eyes off of me until the last possible second.

“Oh, he is smitten,” Prim declares as I sit down on the bed and present my braid to her.  “Almost as much as you are!”

I twist around and pinch her ankle.

“Ow!” she laughs.

“Hurry up, duckling.  I want to be ready by the time Peeta’s done.”

She makes quick work of unraveling my braid.  The fine-toothed comb moves through my hair slowly and delicately.  It matches Prim’s tone: “Is he your husband?”

I’d known she would ask me that eventually.  “If I said he was?”

Her hand pauses.  “I would be so very happy for you.”

“Thank you, Prim.”

She has just finished braiding my hair when Peeta comes out.  The very fine, dark tunic he is wearing is one I recognize but cannot place.  What’s more surprising is that it’s just big enough around to fit him in the chest and shoulders.  The sleeves are a little too short, though.  “Whose is that?” I blurt.

“Hawthorne’s,” Prim answers.  “From Rory.”

“Did you tell him…?”

“No.  He gave his father’s things to me so I could use the fabric again, but I haven’t been able to… um.  It hasn’t been a year yet and I still miss him.”

What?  “Gale’s father is dead?  When?  How?”  The last time I’d seen the study, rotund man, he’d been fighting in the streets with the Northmen—  “No…”

Prim nods miserably.  “I’m so sorry, Katniss.  We think it was quick.  It was a clean blow.”

My stomach twists into a knot and falls out through the bottom of my feet.  Bracing my elbows on my knees, I bury my face in my hands.  Oh, no.  No.  Hawthorne… Gale’s father… my father’s old friend… dead.  Dead because of the Northmen who had come here.

This is hopeless.  My plan to save Samland is never going to work.  The people here have lost too much already and now here is Peeta, the son of our enemy.  The perfect recipient for their hate and vengeance.

How can I possibly keep him?

I bite my lip.

“Katniss?”

I drag in a deep breath and look up at the sound of Peeta’s voice.

“What is it?”

He kneels at my feet.  I do not know if I take his hands or if he take mine, but I grip him hard.  There must be a way for me to keep him, to protect him.  He has no idea of the danger he is in and it is all my fault that he is here in the first place.

I should have left him tied to a tree near his brother’s campfire. I should have convinced him I didn’t want him after all so he wouldn’t fight it… so he’d let me go… so he’d be home with his brother at this very moment. Safe.

“Tell me,” he pleads.  “I will help you.  You are not alone.”

I nod, closing my eyes and drawing a calming breath.  “A moment, please,” I require before asking my sister, “Is Haymitch guarding our father’s door tonight?”

“Yes.  I’ll take you to him.  Follow me.”


	26. The Mentor

(Katniss)

 

“Well, well, well.  I was wondering when I’d be seeing you again, dumpling.”

Despite my worries, I cannot stop myself from rolling my eyes and sighing with equal measures of fondness and irritation.  He knows I hate the endearment.  That’s why he uses it.  “Haymitch.”

We clasp hands and he draws me close so that we may rest our palms against the side of each other’s necks.  It is a greeting reserved for dear friends who have earned a place in one’s family.  I would have used it with Hawthorne had he still been alive.

Hawthorne and how many others are dead because of that raid last spring?  How can I keep the still-mourning families from blaming Peeta?  How can I protect him if the very act of doing so turns my own people against me?

This problem is too thorny for me to untangle alone, and I wonder if it will be too much for even Haymitch.  I have never needed my mentor more than I do now.

“And who is this pretty thing?” he drawls sarcastically, eying Peeta over my shoulder.

“Either a great boon or an insolvable problem,” I confess.

Prim locks the door behind us and moves toward the far wall where the entrance to my father’s private room stands.  I give her a nod of thanks as she passes by, and she gives me a small smile before disappearing into our father’s bed chamber to check on him.

I dread seeing him again even though I long for it: I want to see him whole and healthy, strong and proud.  I want to see wisdom and kindness shining in his grey eyes again.

“A boon or a problem, eh?” Haymitch muses as he steps back and scratches the scruff on his chin thoughtfully.  “Finally found yourself a man and now you don’t know what to do with him.  Well, if you’d like a few pointers—”

I stomp on his foot and smile when he yelps.

“That was not very nice, dumpling,” he observes sourly.

“Well, I’m not going to apologize.”  Peeta snorts softly when I tilt my chin up and plant my hands on my hips.  My smile widens.  I like that Peeta likes me like this: unfettered.

“You?  Apologize?  Perish the thought.”  Haymitch rolls his eyes and gestures for me to take a seat.  I recognize each and every one of the padded benches arranged around the fire lapping lazily at the logs in the hearth.  This is home.  I am home… and yet I’m not.

I wave for Peeta to join me and I do not make room between us when he sits possessively close.  I remember all of the strange people at Trelleborg and how I’d had to fight the urge to clutch at Peeta’s arm, how reassured I had been by the touch of his hand.  I can appreciate how unnerving this is for him now that our positions are reversed.

And although I may be rude to Haymitch, I do not wish to make a habit of it with Peeta.  I perform the introductions before my mentor has the opportunity to scold me.

“Peeta, this is Haymitch.  He is…”  I trail off with a wince of frustration.  I do not know the word in Peeta’s language for how Haymitch serves my father.  I settle for, “He manages this place.”

Peeta suggests, “A steward?”

I’m not completely sure, but I nod.  “And he teaches me.  Thinking.  Ways of thinking.”

“Strategy?”  Perhaps that is the best word for it.  I let it go.  The details are not important right now.

“Haymitch,” I say quietly, mindful of being overheard through the wooden walls, “this is Peeta.”

“A Northman,” he summarizes from our brief exchange.  I wonder if he knows anything of the language.

“Yes.”

He gives me a long, level look.  “Dumpling, you’re in it _deep.”_

I know.  “There’s more.”

“Of course there is.”  He pulls out his ever-present hard-leather flask and takes a pull from the neck before capping it with its wooden stopper and returning it to the hook on his belt.  Gesturing loosely, he invites on a weary sigh, “Out with it.  Let’s see how much worse things can get.”

“He is the bastard son of King Harald of Denmark.”

Haymitch’s eyebrows jerk upward.  I’ve surprised him.  Under other circumstances, I would be enjoying this rare occurrence.

“I was under his protection this past year.  As a slave.”

His jaw sags.

“Well, n-not _his_ slave, um,” I fumble and stutter.  “His brother’s.  But Peeta was a friend to me even though he did not know who I am.”

“Uh-huh…”  Haymitch gathers his wits and gives Peeta an appraising look.  “Have you told him?”

“No.”

“Then why is he here?”

I bite out, “Because I wouldn’t let Gale kill him and he seemed rather determined that someone take his head!”

A warm hand presses against my back and I force myself to relax.  Peeta is safe.  I need to focus on making sure that fact does not change.  I’m beginning to understand why Peeta had been so anxious during those first few days of my new life with his brother’s family.  This is maddening.

I continue, “I told Gale and the others only that Peeta is important, and he is.  His brother and the king are both very fond of him.  He has value.”

“You know what will happen if we ransom him back.”

I chew on my lip.  “I know.”  More raids, worse than before.  Perhaps a campaign to conquer all of Samland.  How had one noble intention turned into this?  All I’d wanted to do was save Peeta’s life.

But, no.  That’s not entirely true.

I look toward the fire and clench my jaw to keep from flinching at my own thoughts: I hadn’t wanted to save Peeta’s life for Peeta’s sake, but for _mine._

“No ransoming,” I conclude.  I’m not certain that I could part with him even if that were the safest option.

Haymitch blows out a long breath and scrubs his hands over his craggy face.  I hear one curse word and then a second.  “Fine, fine,” he eventually mumbles.  “So what’s your goal here, dumpling?”

“At the moment?  To wrest our strongest fighters away from Alma.”

He smirks.  “And just how were you going to accomplish that?”

I can see that he already has a strategy in mind.  He is testing me.  He is always testing me despite the fact that we think very much alike, he and I.  “I thought… if people were to see Peeta here with me, they might believe that I’ve secured an alliance with Harald, um, by marrying his son.”

Haymitch purses his lips.  That means he’s impressed.  He won’t admit to it, though.  “His bastard son,” he points out.

“No one here knows that,” I defend.

“True.  So what’s the problem?  Sounds like you’ve got it all sorted.”  He kicks his feet out and crosses his skinny legs at the ankle.

I hiss through my teeth, “You know I don’t.  Alma will use this against us.  The people are still angry and grieving.  They won’t welcome a Northman.”

“Hm,” he agrees.

“So… what do we do?”

“What makes you think I have any answers?”

I snort inelegantly.  “You’re my mentor, Haymitch.  My father’s advisor.  _Advise.”_

Haymitch shrugs.  “Your wish is my command.”  He pulls his feet back under the bench, leans forward, props his elbows on his knees, and proclaims, “We ask your father to bless the union.”

I blink.  “That’s all?”

“Everyone remembers his better days, dumpling.  They want him to lead them, but they know he can’t.  If he presents them with an alternative to Alma – you and buttercream, here – they’ll give you a chance.  One chance.”  Haymitch squints at Peeta.  “Is he going to be able to do anything about it when those longboats hit our shores again?”

I fight the urge to fidget.  “He is well-known and well-liked in his father’s land.  I have seen how everyone holds him in warm regard.”

“That’s something… but is he willing to stick his neck out for you?  I mean, let’s not delude ourselves: there is no treaty with Harald, no alliance.  Your idea is good, but it won’t hold water when it starts pouring rain.  We’ll be lucky if Harald doesn’t send a fleet to obliterate us once he gets word that his precious bastard boy is here.  Is this gimp really going to look out for your country for you?”

I feel like I’ve been slapped.  Haymitch hasn’t said anything I haven’t already thought of myself, but hearing him boil it down so bluntly makes the entire endeavor seem impossible.  I clutch my hands together between my knees as I try not to look at Peeta.  I know what lengths he’ll go to for me, but how can I ask him to do this?  How can I ask him to defend my people against his own father?  To choose us over the only life he has ever known?  Certainly, Peeta will not be welcome in Denmark again if he takes our side.  But if he leaves, what is to stop Harald from razing our tiny nation to the ground?  What is to stop him if Peeta stays but fails to help us?

Haymitch stares at me until I crack: “What are you looking at _me_ for?”

“Ask him,” he retorts drolly, twitching his chin in Peeta’s direction.

I feel my face heat at the rebuke.  This is Peeta’s decision, after all.  I must ask him… but I don’t know what I’ll do if he refuses.  Or if he _agrees._   There is no clear path through these brambles.

Exhaling slowly, I turn toward Peeta, take a breath, open my mouth, and—

Suddenly, Haymitch sends his fist right at me.  I’m too shocked with incomprehension to flinch away.

But it doesn’t matter.  Peeta’s arm shoots out and his big hand clamps over my mentor’s wrist.  In the next instant, following a flurry of motion and an overturned bench, Peeta has Haymitch kneeling on the floor with both arms twisted behind his back.

I gape until the older man’s wheezing laughter fills the room.  He looks up at me through his bedraggled hair and winks.  “Dumpling, I think your plan might work after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm using the gesture Haymitch and Katniss exchange from the movie (just before she gets on the hovercraft and heads off to the arena) here for a greeting. I really loved seeing that in the movie and I wanted it to have a reappearance here. Especially since, as I mentioned, I'm making up the culture in Samland as I go along. Artistic license for the win!


	27. Who Could be King

(Katniss)

 

Prim still hasn’t returned from our father’s bedside when I finally manage to convince Peeta that Haymitch had merely been testing him and doesn’t truly mean me harm.  Peeta doesn’t stop glaring at the man, though, and seems on the verge of constantly stepping between the two of us.

Exasperated, I pull Peeta toward the hearth and leave Haymitch to commune with the heady ale in his flask.

“You want to know everything?” I prompt and, as I’d guessed, this gains Peeta’s complete attention.

He takes the seat opposite me and crowds forward so that our knees are nearly brushing.  “Yes.”

“You already know a lot,” I mumble.  Taking a deep breath, I point to myself.  “Who is my father?  Do you guess?”

He swallows, his gaze moving over my fine dress before taking in the comfort of the room around us.  I read his answer in his hesitance.  “I think… your father is very important in this place.”

He’s right.  I’m only confirming his suspicions when I say, “He is the king of this land, Samland.  He has no sons, two daughters only.  I am the eldest.”

His shoulders slump with this knowledge.  He doesn’t look surprised, only defeated.  The fire crackles and spits softly as the ache in my chest grows and spreads until I don’t think I’ll ever be able to use my voice again.

“What will you do?” he finally asks, his fingers curling into fists and then opening again.  He presses his palms together, interlocks his fingers, twists them one way and then the other.  My heart mirrors every movement.

 _What will I do?_ he wishes to know.  I wish for the answer to that, too.  An answer that frees us both rather than ties us down.  I must be mad for thinking of my time at Káto’s farmstead as the freest I have ever been.

“My duty,” I answer unhappily.  I want that simple life I’d been on the cusp of with Peeta: a farm, the seasons, a warm bed.  Each day we could have lived for each other, just each other and no one else.

His hands fist on top of his knees.

“I need your help, Peeta.  _We,”_ I correct myself, “need your help.”

“We?” he repeats, frowning at me, bewildered.

“My people.  My country.”

“Katniss, I’m just a crippled son of a slave.  What can _I_ do for your country?”

“That’s not what you are,” I object, reaching for his arm.  “You are the son of a king.  Your people respect you.”

He snorts softly and shakes his head in denial.  “Respect?  No, I’m just—”

“Stop,” I beg on a breath.  “You do not see clearly.  You… you are _good,_ Peeta.  Your people know this.”

He runs a hand through his hair on a sigh of defeat.  I’m glad he’s not going to continue arguing with me even if I haven’t convinced him.  “What is it you think I can do?”

“You can give us hope.”  They are simple words.  Simple words are all I know.

He stares at me blankly.  “How?”

“Show everyone – you showed me,” I implore brokenly.  Lifting a hand to his beard, I stroke the fine hairs with my fingertips.  “There is one good man from Denmark.  If there is one, maybe there are more.”

Disbelief clings to the crinkle in his brow and the downward turn of his lips.  I persist, “I will show you.  You can do this.  Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” he quickly answers.  “I just… this is…”  He blows out a deep breath.  “Tell me what you need, Katniss.  What troubles are you facing?”

My breath hitches at his calm approach.  This is so very _him._   I begin, “There is a man here.  He is called Alma.  He wants to be king.  He uses fear and the people follow him.  They want to follow my father, but he is ill.  For a long time.”  I glance over at the door to my father’s room.  It is still closed.  “Alma’s plan will kill many people.  We can stop him.  We can save them.”

“But… my people are the enemy, too,” he responds slowly.

I struggle to explain the plan, but my command of his language is not good enough.  In the end, all I can manage are two words, “Maybe not.”

Understanding dawns upon his face, lifting his brows, widening his blue eyes, loosening his jaw.

“I am sorry,” I whisper, pulling my hands away from his.  “I took you away.  Your family.  Your home.  Now I ask this.  This is not your home, not your people.”  I’ve never felt so utterly wretched in my life.  All I do is _take_ from him, _steal_ from him.  My gaze falls to his wrists – reddened and a little swollen – peeking out from beneath the too-short tunic sleeves.  _Injure him._

He reaches for my hands, startling me.  I look up and he peers into my eyes.  His voice is earnest when he asks, “You want me to protect your country?”

I can’t speak.  I can’t even nod.  I simply sit and stare at him helplessly.  It’s not until he draws an uneven breath – an inhalation that sounds like a refusal – that I come to my senses.

“Peeta, please.”

He gnaws on his lower lip and stares blankly into the fire, but he doesn’t pull away.  Perhaps the problem is not that he doesn’t want to do this, but that he lacks confidence in his own abilities.  I know he can do this.  We can do this.  Together.

I touch his cheek like I had that cold, spring morning beside the river when he’d heard me sing, when I’d allowed myself to need him.  His beard tickles my palm, but I don’t pull away.  He leans his face into my hand.  “I cannot promise to be a good leader of men, Katniss.”  His lips caress the base of my thumb with every word.

“You are a good man.  Men will follow you.”  It will be as easy and natural as breathing.  He cannot imagine it, but I see it.  I see it so clearly.

I wait, lulled by the constant, soft caresses of his thumb over my knuckles, relishing the warmth of his hand when it raises to cradle mine against his jaw.  Just when Peeta takes a deep breath, shifts on his sit, and glances at me through his lashes – just as my heart starts pounding and I dare to hope – my father’s bedroom door opens, revealing Prim.

“He’s awake,” she says softly, and I know it is time.


	28. Ascension

(Katniss)

 

It is time to come home, to accept my birthright, to be my father’s daughter and our people’s leader.

When Peeta’s hands squeeze mine, I realize I’d been clutching the fingers to the point of pain.  “Sorry,” I mouth.

He gives me a gentle smile of forgiveness.

“Will you, um…” I begin awkwardly.  “I’ll see him first but… will you meet him after?”

“If you wish.”

My wishes are what has gotten us into this mess.  I should not be making any more of them.  “Thank you,” I say instead and then I stand.  My hands slide out of his grasp.  Turning to my sister, I ask her to send in Peeta and Haymitch on my signal.

She nods, wraps her arms around me in a quick hug, and then I’m passing over the threshold into a room I have seen time and time again in my dreams over the past year, a room filled with memories that had never failed to break my heart upon waking.  My gaze sweeps the walls.  _There_ is the rack of antlers from the first stag I’d killed… and _there_ is the rug Prim had finished weaving for me when I’d failed at the loom… and _there_ is the chest with our mother’s wedding dress – I remember when she’d shown it to me – and _there_ is the bed where Prim and I used to collapse in a twisted pile of giggles as our father ticked us on a sea of furs.

“Papa,” I breathe.

His head turns toward me slowly.  I swallow back my fear at the sight of his pallor.  He is dying, but his eyes burn with a devotion that makes me feel like a little girl being rocked in his arms.  How could I have I forgotten how much he loves me?  Why had I willfully given up any chance of seeing him again?

The shame drowns me.

“Papa,” I cough, fighting my tears as I crash to my knees beside his bed, ignoring the bench entirely.  I take his hand in both of mine and press his cold, dry palm to my face.

His voice is little more than a ghostly whine.  _“Kat—nh…nh!”_   His throat works and a dribble of spit escapes the corner of his mouth.

I scramble for a nearby square of clean fabric and gently blot his jaw.

“I’m here,” I tell him, pressing kiss after kiss to his brow and gaunt cheeks.  “I’m home.  I’m fine.  I missed you.”

His lips move and I think I read the question he is trying to ask in the shape of his mouth.  _“Where…?”_

“I was in Denmark.  With King Harald’s family.  I met his sons.  He has two.  The eldest, Káto, is married with three children.  The younger…”  I have to stop and focus so I don’t ramble stupidly and tire him.  “The younger son is called Peeta and he is so kind, papa.  So wise and gentle and he protects me.”

I pet his hand, happy that my words have soothed the urgency in my father’s wan features.

“Peeta is here.  He came back with me.  He is a good man, papa.”  His eyes beg me to keep speaking, so I do.  I tell him how Peeta taught me his people’s language and how he _tried_ to teach me how to weave on a loom and—  “He saved my life once.  I could have been killed, but he acted quickly and… here I am.  With you now.”  It is the truth even though it is not all of it.

My father’s hand squeezes mine with surprising strength.

“Would you like to meet him?”

His chin dips in the barest of nods.  Grinning through my tears, I lean back and call for Prim.  A moment later, Peeta enters with Haymitch.  I’ve never seen Peeta look nervous in quite this way before.  He is pale rather than flushed.  I stand and reach a hand out to him as I continue clutching my father’s in the other.  He walks slowly and I realize he’s trying to make a good impression, trying to mask his uneven gait.

Idiot man.  Doesn’t he know how admirable his scars are?

“He’s not usually this slow,” I tell my father.  “He was injured when he was a boy, hunting with his brother and their friends.  It was a boar.  It nearly took his leg.”

My father’s gaze flicks down to Peeta’s knees.

“Katniss…” Peeta objects softly, embarrassed.  I stretch for his hand and, grasping it, haul him over to sit on the bench with me.

“Stop,” I say yet again.  “You are strong and good.”

His face flushes bright red.  Ah, yes.  This is the man I know.

“My father respects men of courage.”  I squeeze his hand.  “As do I.”  Once again, I conduct the introductions.  “Papa, this is Peeta, son of Harald of Denmark.”  And to Peeta I say in his language, “This is my father, Everdeen, King of Samland.”

Peeta salutes him twice, first in the custom of Denmark and then using the same gesture Prim had offered him earlier in the evening.  “Thank you for your hospitality,” Peeta says clearly, speaking as if seated at the head table in the dining hall rather than at a sickbed.  I see a gleam of approval in my father’s eyes even before I begin to translate.

Peeta has no end of good things to say about our land, and I try not to feel embarrassed as I convey his kind and thoughtful words about me.

“Your daughter is uncommonly brave and gifted.  She has learned our language so quickly.”  He gives me a charming smile and adds, “I hope Katniss will return the favor so that I might speak to you without inconveniencing her.”

“It’s not an inconvenience,” I add once I’ve finished speaking for him.  Our gazes meet.  I’m suddenly overheated where our skin touches: my hand feels like it’s trapped in a fire grate.  We share another smile.  It is almost shy.  My father rasps out a chuckle which quickly turns into an unfortunate cough.

Prim darts forward to gently trickle water into his mouth and massage his throat.  After his body has stopped fighting him and he calms, Haymitch steps over to his side and murmurs into my father’s ear.  I cannot hear what my mentor says but I know from my father’s suddenly somber expression that is it dire.

After a moment, Haymitch leans back.  “Have they your permission?”

The formal words startle me.  I can count only one other occasion when I’d heard Haymitch speak this way: just after my mother’s death, Haymitch had come to ask my father to let her body go so that she could be taken away and washed for burial.

My father nods and gestures weakly to a wooden box on top of my mother’s keepsake chest.  Without a word, Haymitch straightens and approaches it.  Only when he reverently lifts the lid do I feel a single drumbeat of dreadful anticipation.  Haymitch is never reverent about _anything_ that doesn’t fit into the flask on his belt, so I can guess what is coming.

“Papa…” I breathe, looking into his eyes.  He smiles a little and it should ease me to see him untroubled, but I am restless.  I want to ask him _why._   Why so soon?  I think I know the answer, but I cannot bear to hear it.

Instead, I ask, “Are you sure?”

He gestures to our clasped hands – mine and Peeta’s – and nods.

“He trusts your judgment,” Haymitch gruffly translates.  “As well he should.  I’ve been teaching you how to use it for long enough.”

Is it a laugh or a sob which escapes me in response?  I’m not sure.

Haymitch lifts his hands and my suspicions are confirmed.  From inside the finely crafted, wooden box, he has removed two elaborately embroidered and amber-beaded fur shoulder wraps.  I recognize them.  They have been worn in public by the king and queen of Samland since the day my great-great-grandfather and grandmother had been made head of the tribes.  These stoles are the right of our rulers to wear.

My father stretches his cold, thin fingers around my hand – oh, his poor hands!  Once they’d been so strong and capable.  Steady.  With no hint of the tremors which shake them now.  His body may be wasting away, but his spirit is just as strong.  He tugs me close.  With Haymitch’s assistance, he lays the decorated fur that my mother had once worn around my own neck.  I press my lips to his brow.  He squeezes my hand.

Then he turns his attention to Peeta who is staring at the king’s stole still resting in Haymitch’s hands.  His eyes are wide and his face is pale once again.  I cannot make this decision for him, but in truth there is little else he can do but agree.  If he does not accept this honor, then my friendship with him will become suspect.  No one will trust me.  Alma will win without a fight because I am incapable of letting anything happen to Peeta.  Still, the choice is his to make, although I do wish I’d been able to give him more time to consider it.

When my hand squeezes his, he gulps.  When he looks into my eyes, he resolves.  When he kneels beside my father’s bed, he speaks.

“I will protect Katniss and this kingdom with my life.  I give my oath.”

Even before I’ve finished speaking on his behalf, my father’s fingers slip from my grasp and he motions Peeta closer, close enough to clasp Peeta’s hand between their chests and press his palm to the side of Peeta’s neck.  Shakily, Peeta reciprocates the gesture and shares the very same embrace that Haymitch and I had given each other.  Peeta is now family.

Then my father motions for Haymitch to place the stole around Peeta’s shoulders.  I act as witness when my father touches the ornate clasp in the front, patting it insistently until Peeta’s hand comes up to cover it.  He presses Peeta’s palm to the carved bear upon the seal.

I explain the importance of our symbol to the best of my ability.  “This is the face of Samland.  The bear.  It guards the river.  It eats the fish.  It lives in the forest.  It watches the sea.  It defends from enemies its family.”

Peeta nods in understanding without looking away from my father’s penetrating gaze.  “I understand this duty.”

With a look of satisfaction, my father lets his hand fall back to the bedcovers.  He is tired.  Too tired.  “Rest now, papa.  I will see you again very soon.”  I kiss him once more and then I help Peeta to his feet.  Haymitch sees us out of the room as Prim moves forward to settle our father more comfortably in bed.

We wait, hands still fitted tightly together, while Haymitch unlocks the latch for us.  “Well, dumpling, I’m looking forward to your wedding feast.”

He smirks broadly, the cocky old fool, as he swings open the door.

“Bring your own ale,” I retort smartly and pull Peeta into the empty hallway.  The door shuts behind us, but I can still hear Haymitch’s dry laughter through the wood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've made up so much stuff in this fic, it's shameful. The symbol of Samland, of course. And Everdeen's illness. (Although I don't feel too badly about pulling these symptoms out of thin air - I recently read a study comparing the Black Death of the 14th century to 19th century bubonic plague and there's a strong case for them being completely separate illnesses, suggesting that some medical conditions either die out or evolve over time. So, it's possible that Everdeen suffers from something that doesn't exactly match up with a modern disease.)
> 
> Also, I'm incorporating a lot of my own experiences with living abroad, marrying a foreigner, and CHOOSING to continue living abroad despite the fact that I love my family back home. It is very easy to convince yourself that you don't need your family where there's actual distance between you and them... but as soon as you're reunited, you wonder what the everlovin' goatblat you were thinking when you left in the first place. And, by the way, it never gets any easier. Leaving, I mean, after a visit. It never, ever gets any easier.


	29. A Kiss Goodnight

(Katniss)

 

It is still the middle of the night and there is only one place where we can wait out the long, dark hours.

“This is…?” Peeta begins uncertainly, looking around as I hand him the first lamp and move to light a second.

“My room,” I answer, shutting the door now that the light from the torch in the hallway is no longer needed.

He moves slowly, studying everything in the cluttered bed chamber with the utmost attention to detail.  I wonder if he’ll someday draw pictures of these things, crouching with a stick in hand, sketching in the dirt, playing in the sunlight of a lazy, summer afternoon.  The thought makes me smile.

He reaches out to touch the animal pelts I’d hung on the walls to keep out the winter chill, the small table with its wooden basin and bucket for water, the ladle hanging from a string.  “Yours are better,” I offer, gesturing to the utensil when he turns and gives me a questioning look.

He smiles crookedly.  “You think so?”

“Yes.”

He passes his hand over the carvings upon the wooden chest where I keep my clothing.  He peers at the shutter latch.  It’s not a type of lock that the Northmen are familiar with, but he doesn’t try to open the window.  That can wait until morning.  He smiles at the spear, bow, and quiver of arrows beside my bed.

“I knew it,” he tells me happily.  Before I can ask what he’d known, he explains, “You’re a warrior, a hunter.”  He strokes a deer hide tacked up on the timbers.  “I was certain the moment our hands touched for the first time.”

I squint, trying to remember.

He supplies me with his memory of it.  “It was in Harald’s hall.  You passed me the ale pitcher.”

Oh.  Yes.  The memory of that first day ashore is hazy.  I’d been so exhausted and overwhelmed and eager to die, but I remember how warm his touch had been, how it had nearly made me shudder with longing for somewhere safe and something to hold onto.  And there stood Peeta, right in front of me.  The gods’ answer to my unvoiced prayer.

“I first saw you on the road,” he tells me, undeterred by my silence.  He gestures to the left side of his own face.  “I saw the bruises, your swollen eye and jaw.  But when I saw your bindings—”  His attention drops to my hands.  “—when I saw that they were bloody, that was when I knew I was never going to forget you.”

“But… you did not know me,” I object.

He smiles softly.  “Oh, I know.  But...”  He chuckles under his breath, caught up in the memory.  “That damned pony never moved so fast in its life as it did then.  I had to run to catch up to Káto to tell him I wanted you.  I didn’t even know how beautiful you were until I saw you pouring ale in the hall, and I didn’t know I was caught until I looked into your eyes for the first time at the meal-fire.”

He meets my gaze now.  “You have eyes that weigh the worth of a man.  You see into his heart.”

“Do I?” I whisper.  Given how tightly my chest is compressed, it is a wonder I can speak at all.

He nods.  The look in his eyes is terrifying.  Thrilling.  Parts of me suddenly feel broken.  Others surprisingly strong.  My voice is one of the latter.

“Then, it is true,” I inform him, shaken and giddy and _determined_ to beat him at his own game.  He will see his own worth.  He will see himself as I see him.  “It must be true – you are good.”  I smile playfully.  “Because _these eyes_ chose you.”

He looks at me as if he fears he is imagining all of this – us, here, now – and my teasing grin fades.  The pieces of me that he holds together so effortlessly jangle.  My fingers twitch restlessly.  I can feel my pulse rushing through my limbs almost as if I’m caught up in the hunt, in battle.

I close the distance between us on legs that have gone numb and he blinks slowly when I pass my fingertips over his mouth.  His beard is in need of trimming, but when his lips tremble open that hardly matters.  My chin tilts up as my hand smooths down over his jaw, guiding his face toward mine with a caress.

His whiskers touch my lips first.  They tickle a little and I smile helplessly.  His breath puffs softly against my skin and then his lips whisper upon mine.

My heart stops.  Silence – silence so profound it makes my ears ache – pulses between us. 

His lips settle against mine for a long, slow moment.  My lungs feel empty.  I open my mouth, inhale, and a soft noise rumbles deep in his throat as our lips come together like the workings of a lock.  His tongue soothes my chapped lower lip before he draws it gently into his heated mouth, suckles, nips, and releases it on a long breath.

“I’vewantedtodothatforsolong,” he confesses in an almost indiscernible rush of syllables.  His eyes remain stubbornly shut as he nuzzles my cheek, my ear, my hair.

I’m panting as if I’ve just been barreling through the forest chasing after a wounded deer.  I don’t doubt that, at this moment, my aim would be embarrassingly unsteady.  I would miss the kill shot for the first time in years.  But this is not that kind of hunt.  Neither of us is prey; both of us are prey.

My lips throb and the skin around my mouth tingles from the whispering touch of his beard.  I can feel his hands, burning with heat right through my gown, but they cradle my waist too gently.  My knees are weak and my hips wobbly.  I could fall at any moment.  My fingers grip him tighter at the back of his neck.

His lips draw near again and I think I’ll shatter if I don’t feel them against mine just once more.  “Is this real, or is this a dream?” he mouths against my jaw.

His breath kisses my neck.  I shiver.  “It’s real.”  His beard brushes against my throat as he lowers his warm, wet mouth to my skin.  My hands travel the span of his shoulders as his slide up my back.  “I’m sorry.”

“Why do you apologize?”

“It’s real.  It’s not perfect.”

He straightens and my breath catches in my throat at the way his gaze moves over my face, like there is nothing else in the world he longs to see, no one else he longs to touch, nowhere else he longs to be.  “This is perfect,” he insists.

As he places one, two, three soft, nibbling kisses on my lips, he raises his hands until he has captured my wrists in a loose grasp.  It is with some regret that I move away.  He lets me go, cradling my hands in his and bridging the distance between our too-warm bodies.

I had not known that a kiss could feel like that.  I had never guessed that his scent could make me lightheaded and achy all at once.

“Do you think you could sleep a little more?” Peeta asks.

Honestly, no, but I nod.  I should sleep.  Taking a deep and calming breath, I put some distance between us and the tangible memory of that kiss.

Looking over at my bed, I’m suddenly overwhelmingly tired.  Or perhaps I am simply overwhelmed.  This is my bed.  My.  Bed.  The memory of it makes my entire body ache for its warmth and softness.  Maybe I can sleep after all.


	30. No More Hiding

(Katniss)

 

The feel of Peeta’s mouth upon mine has awakened something hungry and insatiable within me even as it lulls, comforts, and reassures.  As does his silence.  Perhaps he does not share my faith in him, but he has given up the argument over his worth.  He has given in.  I will win in the end.  It is only a matter of time.  I can rest easily tonight knowing that.  I focus my thoughts on that.

I move to one side of the bed.  Peeta’s gaze meets mine as I carefully remove my mother’s stole.  I have never undressed so brazenly in his presence before.  It is unsettling.  I twist away before shedding my gown and pulling off my boots.  I now wear only my calf-length shift.  Is Peeta still watching?  I shiver a little at the thought of him doing so, but I know he does not like me to look at him as he disrobes and watching me undress when he won’t return the favor is grossly unfair and not very like him.

Thinking of how he always flushes and hurriedly slides his bare legs beneath the covers, I clear my throat.  “Peeta…”

“Yes?”

“You understand – your leg is not bad.”  I curse myself.  These are the best words I can find to explain how much I admire his strength?  Pathetic.  I try again: “You are strong.  You have courage.”

When he doesn’t answer, I glance tentatively over my shoulder.  His fingers are curled into the tunic bunched around his elbows.  He has just pulled it over his head.  I cannot see his face; he has turned his back just like every other night.

I press, “If… you show your leg, I will be fine.”  The awkward offer seems to push us further away from each other.  I struggle for better words.  “If I am your wife—um.”

He lets out a blustery breath but still says nothing.

“I will not hide from you,” I promise with sudden inspiration, “if you do not hide from me.”  And I’m not only speaking of scars and other injuries of the body, but I don’t know how to _say_ what I mean!  “I don’t have enough words,” I admit with frustration, curling the end of my braid around my fist as if I am bandaging scraped and bloody knuckles.

“No!” he quickly replies, turning to face me.  “You know I want to hear your words.  No matter what they are.  I just…”  His anxious expression disappears with surprising swiftness and a sparkle of laughter twinkles in his eyes.  “Do you remember the first time we went fishing with spears?”  He waits for me to nod.  “Later, we were cleaning our catch in the yard and I asked you to talk to me in your language.  You taught me some words…”

“Fish, knife, basket,” I recall, re-teaching them to him now, remembering to use gestures like he often does to help me.

“Yes!  Fish, knife, basket.  And then you said something about fish guts.”

I blink at him, face and mind blank… and then I laugh.

“What was it?  What did you say to me?”

I have to look away from his enthusiastic smile.  My face reddens and my scalp grows warm.  “I wasn’t speaking of fish guts,” I mutter at the wall.

“Then what did you say?  Tell me, please?  You promised not to hide from me.  Tell me what you said.”

I arch a brow.  “If I do, you will not hide your leg?”

“I promise.”

“I, um…”  I tell myself to just say the words and seal our promise.  “I said – your eyes are beautiful.”

There’s a long pause.  I can feel my shoulders beginning to creep up toward my ears as my whole body tries to cringe.  I had been smitten with him even then.  The honesty sears me through and through.

He narrows those beautiful eyes at me with playful suspicion.  “Are you sure you weren’t talking about fish guts?”

“I am sure.”  I’d blurted out the first thing that had come to mind as he’d beamed at me.

“Anything else?” he challenges, quirking his chin with confidence, trying to tease another compliment out of me.

I take up my courage with both hands.  “Hm… yes.”  I lean across the bed and gesture him closer.  Marveling at my own daring, I reach out and touch a single fingertip to his pale eyelashes.  “These.  Above the eye.”

“Eyelashes,” he supplies.

“Your eyelashes are very long and I like them.”

He laughs.  “Thank you.”

“You are welcome.”

“I like _you.”_

His soft, abrupt confession shakes something loose inside of me.  My smile nearly tumbles from my lips and my breath catches when his gaze moves over me, from my face down to my knees, and then up again.  I feel my breasts firm and the peaks tighten.  My first inclination is to cross my arms.  I keep them lowered with a conscious effort.  I like hearing him say these kinds of things to me.  I like seeing him looking at me like this.  I like it very much.  Perhaps too much.

“And I promise I’m not hiding my leg tonight,” he assures me.  “I just don’t think we should sleep, um, bare—together—in the same bed.”

I give him a lopsided smile.  “Agreed.”  With no need to delay any longer, I answer the beckoning call of the furs laid out over the straw mattress.  A soft groan escapes me as I lie down.  Oh, yes.  My bed.  _How I have missed this…_

Peeta’s weight joins mine and he lets out a happy sigh.  “This is nice,” he remarks.  I glance over at him and absorb his satisfied expression.  He’d removed only his tunic and boots.  I shake my head at how his borrowed shift comes shamefully short of reaching his wrists.  At least it is big enough around his chest.

The once-familiar scent and warmth of the furs soothe me.  Sheep fleece is nice, but… “I missed this,” I volunteer, snuggling onto my side facing him.

His expression softens with memory.  “As have I.”

He’s not talking about my bed.  He’s talking about those infrequent nights we had spent sleeping side by side out-of-doors and in the stables, sharing warmth.  He collects my hand and presses his lips to my fingers before nuzzling my palm, kissing my inner wrist.  I inhale sharply.  He withdraws his mouth, but his fingers continue to gently toy with mine.

“What happens now?” he wants to know, looking at me through those unbelievably long lashes of his.

“Um.  Now?” I repeat stupidly.

His teeth flash in the lamplight.  His smile is crooked.  “In the morning,” he elaborates.

I frown.  For a moment, I’d almost thought he was asking about something else entirely.  “Oh.  Um.  Our day-meal.  We call it ‘breakfast’ here.”

He nods and traces long, aimless lines over my skin with his scratchy fingertips.

“And, um.  Bathing?”

“That would be very much appreciated.”

Yes, the Northmen do love their hot baths.

“Cray, Alma’s son, will learn I am here.  I have to speak to him.”  Confront him.  I cannot let the insult of his blatant scheming pass unchallenged.

“Alma?  The man who wishes to take Samland for himself?”  Peeta scowls when I nod in confirmation.  “Shall I come with you?”

I bite my lip.  “I’ll think on it.”

He nods.  “No matter your decision, please take care, Katniss.”

“Of course.”  Of course I will.  I have Peeta to look after.  I cannot let anything happen to me.  I cannot leave him here alone.  I cannot let any harm come to him.

When he leans forward on his arm to kiss me once more, I allow it.  More than that – I meet him halfway.


	31. Attending to Guests

(Katniss)

 

 _“Good day to you, Cray, son of Alma.  My apologies for keeping you waiting this past fortnight.”_   That is what I am supposed to say, what Haymitch had coached me to say.

The words clog in my throat as Cray and I stare each other down.  Even from across the dining hall, I can see the man’s slack-jawed expression.  I almost wish I could enjoy it.  In fact, I’m sure that were I any closer to him, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy it at all.  I do not know when he had last cleaned his teeth.  His breath is probably rancid.

“Ka-katniss,” he stutters.  “You are recovered from your illness.”

I don’t reply.  I force myself to move slowly and sedately toward the trio of seats at the very center of the head table: a beautifully detailed chair with an elaborate bench on either side.  The chair is for our ruler, so I suppose that makes it mine.  Or Peeta’s.  But as he cannot speak much of our language, it is probably mine.

I have no intention of sitting there, though.  I’d left my mother’s stole in my room.  Receiving my father’s blessing is one thing.  Receiving the blessing of our people is another.

And regardless, I have other duties to manage this morning.

“Small steps,” Haymitch had coached me on the way to the hall.  “But mind your footwork.”

I pause beside my usual seat to the left of the chair.  Haymitch, had he entered the room with me, would have seated himself on the right, but he never attends breakfast this early, and besides he’s lurking in the corridor with Peeta, waiting for what he calls the “opportune moment.”

“I’ll know it when I hear it,” he’d said, patting my shoulder.  “Just don’t play with your food for too long.  That’s how the cat loses the mouse.”

He has a way with words, that Haymitch.

“You trust him?  Haymitch?” Peeta had asked as my mentor had led us down to the dining hall.

“Yes.”

“You’ll do as he says?”

“I’ll try.”

“Take care?  Please?”

I’d touched his hand in reply.  He’d grasped mine tightly in return.  I probably shouldn’t have told him of the plot to poison my father and me.

“I’ll see you soon,” I’d told Peeta softly, caressing his hand in apology as I’d reluctantly pulled away.  Who would want to leave the side of such a stunning man?  With a little water and clean clothing, the gods had turned him into a vision.

He’d bathed again just after dawn, washed his hair throughly, and trimmed his beard.  As he’d done that, Prim and I had stitched decorative cuffs onto the ends of his tunic sleeves to make up the difference in length.  Haymitch had generously volunteered an ornate belt that he has never worn.  The tops of Peeta’s too-short, borrowed trousers had been tucked nicely into my father’s old leather leg guards, which he’d used long ago for hunting boar and badgers.

To conceal the unfortunately bare state of the tunic’s collar, I’d drawn out the cloak I had been fashioning for my father prior to the attack last spring.  I’d intended to give it to him as soon as he’d been well enough to leave his rooms and accompany me on a hunt in the woods, but now I know that will never happen.  I’d settled the pure white, hare-fur collar around Peeta’s throat and arranged the soft, grey cape so that his fine tunic cuffs and belt could be seen.

Yes, my father would have looked very handsome in this cloak, but Peeta is breathtaking.

“You made this?” he’d asked.

“Well, not the wool.”

“Obviously.”  His giddy smile had defeated my twinge of irritation before it had even gained a foothold.

And now, as I face the son of the man who is plotting death and war, I am glad for Peeta’s steadying presence.  I am not alone in this.  Peeta is with me.  We can accomplish anything, he and I, so long as we are together.  Even if he is not in the room with me at this precise moment, he is watching.  That is enough.

The next words Haymitch had told me to say crowd and crash together in my throat: _“I am recovered.”_

He’d told me to wait until I’d taken my seat and begun to fill my platter delicately, acting like the lady we all know I am not.  I am then supposed to tell that lying, back-stabbing, poison-toting pile of pig shit, _“I thank you for the medicine you brought.  The truest gift is to know who one’s friends are.”_

I say nothing.

Even beneath his unkempt beard, I can see Cray’s throat work.  My silence unnerves him.  I can’t really enjoy that, either.

Under the weight of my unblinking stare, his greasy fingers twitch on either side of his platter.  The goat meat and boiled turnips remain untouched.  His gaze slides guiltily away from mine.  Oh yes, he knows that I am aware of his duplicity.

By now Haymitch’s instructions ought to have me nibbling nonchalantly on my own meal as I watch and wait for Cray’s response.  But I haven’t spoken.  Not a word.  There is nothing for him to respond to.  The silence stretches until I’m sure I could request that a fortress be built upon it: there would be no thicker, stronger foundation.

Although I have no intention of rounding the corner of my father’s dining table, I find myself striding down the steps of the dais to the main floor.

“Next, scare the flatulence out of him with a chat about your new friend, Ol’ Harald Bluetooth of Denmark,” Haymitch had directed.

Cray watches my approach warily from his bench.

“It takes time to secure trust among foreigners, to build friendships.  Say that next, dumpling.”

I don’t.

“We both know you can’t lie to save your life, so put the truth through a sieve.  You can deliver half-truths honestly enough so long as you don’t think about them too much.  And remember: Peeta’s life may depend on precisely how much truth you admit to.  So, don’t drop your head on the floor and kick it out the window, all right?  Focus.  Work with what he gives you, which probably won’t be much, but…”  He’d shrugged eloquently.  “Just remember to speak up so everyone can get a nice, big earful.”

Yes, I should speak loudly because Cray and I are not the only ones in the hall this morning.  He has seven men with him.  At the neighboring table sits Gale and the other men who had gone to Denmark to bring me back.  Through the archways, the kitchen workers have stopped mid-task to hear our conversation and gape at the sight of me.  There might even be stable boys hiding beneath the unshuttered windows outside.

I know what I’ve been scripted to say, what Haymitch is waiting for me to say.  I come to a stop an arm’s length away from Cray’s perch.  I wait for him to stand, which he does shakily.

“Are you ill, Cray?” I whisper through my teeth.  Somehow, the words echo despite their softness.  “Are you in need of… _medicine?”_

He opens his mouth.  I have no interest in what he would say.

I suggest, “Let’s have the medicine you offered _my father and I_ brought out.”

His jaw clenches.  “Ka-katniss—”

 _“That,”_ I inform him with malice, cutting across whatever excuse he intends to offer, “was not a question.”

His hands curl into fists.  The vein in this forehead throbs.

I’ve heard he’s fast and he strikes hard.  I’ve heard tales of his fist breaking a man’s jaw on the first hit.

I do one better.

My right fist smashes into his nose.  My left buries itself in his gut.  As he doubles over, I grab fistfuls of his dirty hair.  It’s not until I’m staring at him as he lies sprawled in the ice and snow-crusted frozen dirt of the bailey, my chest heaving, that realize I’d just dragged a grown man through the dining hall and thrown him out of my father’s keep.  There is probably blood on my skirt.  Prim will be very unhappy about that.

I don’t bother to look for a guard.  The commotion has drawn a lot of attention.  Cray will not dare to retaliate here, now.

The temptation to spit on him engulfs me, but I resist.  I will not give him the satisfaction of inspiring that much hatred.  I tighten my aching hands, fisting them so hard my forearms throb.  “The next time I see you, Cray, I will give you a _taste_ of your own _medicine.”_

I pivot on my heel and march back into the hall.  Gale, Boggs, Chaff, Thresh, Mason, and Mitchell are all standing, braced as if for battle.  Cray’s men have also stood, but are rooted in place by Gale’s dark glower, Chaff’s hungry grin, Thresh’s clenched fists, the ax in Bogg’s belt, the dagger Mason holds, and the larger knife his son Mitchell twirls lazily.  I hold up a hand before turning to Cray’s men.  I recognize several of them.  They used to fight for my father.

“Cray came here to offer not assistance but death,” I inform them.  “My father’s and mine.  I do not hold you responsible _this time,_ but think carefully about the sort of man you follow.”  I glance down at their interrupted meals.  “Finish eating.  You are welcome here.”

I, however, am sure I will start screaming if I remain.  As I pass behind Gale’s table, I whisper my thanks to these dedicated men.  I know I owe them more – much more – for coming to fetch me from Denmark.  I will settle that debt later, in public, if I can.

For now, I keep moving.

It’s not until a hand ghosts beneath my elbow and a soft baritone whispers a long-disused nickname that I let myself breathe deeply.

“Cat-claw,” Gale says again, ushering me into the kitchen.  I go without a fight because the words are not an endearment but an acknowledgement of the fact that I am still the skinny little girl who had bested him at archery.  “You’re small.  A kitten, really,” a much younger Gale had once assessed, “but you’ve some sharp claws.”

I’d taken it as a compliment.

So, when he offers his assistance now, I accept.

As we pass through the archway, the workers suddenly find something engaging to do.  Gale pulls me over to the drain and grabs for a bucket of fresh water.

“Here.  You’ve got some Cray on you.”

I look down and flinch at the bloody hanks of hair clutched between my fingers.  Gritting my teeth, I manage to keep the bile down as Gale forces my cramped hands open and then rinses the filth from them.

When the bucket is empty and a rag has been pressed into my grasp, Gale clears his throat.  “That was, um, pretty good.  Nice work.”

I laugh.  Once.  Hard.

“Looking forward to hearing that make the rounds at archery today.”  I shake my head at his playful tone.  Now I remember why he and I are friends.  When we have something to laugh about, we laugh together.  I hear a thread of hesitance in his tone when he asks, “Will you be there?”

I don’t know, so I don’t say anything.

“Well.”  He shifts his weight.

I have to say something.  Anything.  “Thank you… for the bucket treatment.”

“Anytime.”  He braces his hands on his hips.  I know this pose.  He has something else to say.  “Um.”

I can’t deal with whatever it is he wants right now.  “Let’s talk later,” I murmur tiredly.

He nods and takes a step back.  I forget to return the rag so, by the time I find myself back in the corridor where Haymitch is waiting with Peeta, I’ve nearly twisted the thing into a snarl of broken threads.

I face Peeta first, cringing inwardly at what I had just done right in front of him.  When I peep at him through my brows, a wince already pulling at my face, he grins.

“Hello,” he says merrily.  “It’s nice to meet you, Katniss, daughter of Everdeen.”

My anxiety evaporates with a snort.

He ventures, “I suppose this means we’ll be eating our day-meal in private?”

“Yes.”  I can take off this damned gown and put on my hunting gear.  “Is that fine?”

“Perfect.”  He shouldn’t look so proud of me, should he?  Well, I’m sure Haymitch won’t be.

I glance at my mentor from beneath my lashes.  “I’m sorry,” I mumble.

Haymitch gives me a piercing stare.  I resist the urge to sidle closer to Peeta.  I deserve a reprimand for tossing my mentor’s advice out the window and into the dung heap.

Finally, Haymitch moves.  He shifts out of his slouch against the wall, uncrosses his arms, and shrugs.  “Eh.  That’ll suffice.”

I swear he winks before meandering back down the corridor to his room.  “We’ll show off buttercream at dinner,” he tosses over his shoulder.  “Maybe you’ll have your appetite back by then, dumpling.”

I’m still gaping when Peeta ventures hesitantly, “Dumpling?”  He is copying Haymitch, questioning with the innocence of a child who repeats what he hears although he does not understand the meaning behind it.

“No,” I hiss, whirling on him.  “Don’t call me that.”

He holds up his hands in surrender and I hiccup on yet another helpless snort.  He chuckles.  I laugh.  Let everyone in the dining hall hear us and wonder.  I don’t care.


	32. Confirmation

(Katniss)

 

“Ready for the rematch, dumpling?”

I grit my teeth and tilt my head back so that I can demand of the night sky through the roof of the keep, “Just tell me what manner of creature I have to sacrifice to convince the gods to smite you.”

Haymitch chuckles.  I want him gone.  I want this night over with.  I want everything to be peaceful and serene so that I can retire to my room with Peeta and teach him words like “deerskin” and “marmot furs” and “sweet dreams.”  He and I had spent the entire afternoon in lessons rehearsing language that had been exhausting rather than meaningful.

Although, I suppose I do feel a little accomplished: Peeta can certainly say “please” and “thank you” and, considering the night ahead of us, I’m sure those words will be well-used.

Still, what I wouldn’t give to be seated in my father’s meeting room with him again, drawing in the ash in the hearth, whispering back and forth.  What I wouldn’t give to be rid of this damned gown.  At least I’m permitted to wear my boots rather than the stupid slippers Prim had tried to force on me.

I hate formal banquets.

“Get that frown off of your face, _dumpling,”_ Haymitch trollishly drawls.  “Gale, Mitchell, and Chaff brought in a good haul from the forest, so the only thing that could _possibly_ disappoint your guests is that shit-sour scowl of yours.”

“You _would_ know how sour shit is,” I grump in response, standing up and yanking at my skirt.  Prim had managed to wipe up the worst of the blood splatter.  The dark color of the fabric conceals the rest.

My lips twitch upward; I remember that first night in Trelleborg and Peeta’s efforts to conceal my crime and save my life.  He and my sister both take issue with me being covered in gore.  For some reason, that makes me smile.

“That’s more like it,” Haymitch approves before turning to Peeta.  He reaches out to adjust Peeta’s cape.  Yet again, we are not wearing our stoles.  Those are now resting in their scented, wooden box.  “All right, buttercream.  Let’s pretend that I’m a drunk villager who is insulting the lovely cape your dumpling gave you.  What is your reply?”

I know Peeta cannot possibly understand my mentor’s rushed and informal speech.  His eyes cut to me for only the briefest moment so I can give him a nod of encouragement, and then he smiles pleasantly at Haymitch and enunciates, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“And if I get a little too comfortable with our lovely Katniss?” he adds, wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me snugly against his body.  His tunic smells vaguely of fermented sweat.

Peeta smoothly comes between us and collects my hands.  “King Everdeen’s hospitality is good, is it not?”

“Generous.  Is generous,” I correct out of the corner of my mouth.

Peeta dutifully repeats the phrase but I’m more happy about the fact that he smells much better than Haymitch.

My mentor probes, “And when you’re face to face with Gale?”

“Gale?” Peeta confirms, waits for Haymitch’s nod, then offers sincerely, “I thank you for escorting us to Samland safely.”

Haymitch huffs.  “Good enough.”  Then, as he stomps off toward my father’s bed chamber to help Prim, he mutters, “Too late to do anything about it now, in any case.”

The desire to slap Haymitch is natural.  He is like a mosquito hovering, constantly poised to draw blood.  That I manage to resist the impulse to squash him is surely an effort noble enough to be acknowledged by the ancestors.

Another knock on the door reveals Gale.

His grey eyes flick down my attire and then back up again.  “That the same dress from breakfast?”

“Yes.”

“The blood cleaned up well.”

“Prim’s contribution.”

He laughs, offers a guarded nod of acknowledgement to Peeta, and then follows the same route Haymitch had taken.  A few moments later, Prim opens the door and both men carry my father our between them.  Gale and my mentor clasp each other’s elbows beneath my father’s wasted thighs and support his shrunken shoulders with the opposite arm.  He is held as if seated in a chair.  Of all the possible ways to carry a man, this offers the most dignity and even then that is not much.

“You clean up well, papa,” I tease him instead of remarking on how much it hurts me to see him humiliated this way.  “Is that the tunic Prim made for you?”

His smile is barely there, battling through the pain, but he still looks proud to be wearing something so finely crafted… and fashioned by his daughter no less.

Peeta and I follow slowly as Haymitch, Gale, and Prim head for the dining hall where the people from our village and leaders from each of the tribes awaits our appearance.  After the scene at breakfast this morning, Haymitch had sent word announcing tonight’s feast.  The last time I’d seen the dining hall filled to capacity had been the summer festival of my twelfth year when I had been formally recognized by my father as his heir.  The guests had spilled out into the bailey.

“You look anxious,” Peeta observes softly in his language.

I nod.

“They are your people,” he reminds me.  “They have missed you.”

I am not apprehensive on my own behalf, but I do not tell him that.  “Peeta,” I begin, halting our progress, “you… you want this?”

He studies my expression and raises his hands to my face.  “I want to marry you.”

“But… the protection of my country and people…  You will be _king…_   Are you, um, certain?”

“To be completely honest, no.  I don’t know if I can do what you say I can.  I fear I will fail you, but I am too selfish to give you up now that you’ve agreed.”

His truthful words, softly and reverently spoken, are both soothing and terrifying.  Calming because he _chooses_ me.  Frightening because _he_ chooses _me._   “You… in the future… Peeta, is this a mistake to you?”

He brushes his thumbs over my cheeks and leans in to press his lips to mine.  I gasp at the sudden contact and I stop thinking.  His scent is a flavor upon my tongue.  I can taste the heat of him as well.  His rough fingertips burn my skin and his soft exhalation against my cheek makes me dizzy.

As kisses go, it is brief and chaste, but no less devastating for it.

He pulls away and I realize I’m gripping his forearms.  I loosen my hold, mindful of his still-tender skin.  “Katniss, I cannot let you go.  And… I want to be worthy of your regard.  I am no warrior, but I want to do this.  I think I can be this man whom you need, if you show me how.”

“You will be a good king,” I tell him with renewed confidence.  In fact, I doubt he has much to learn about it.  His wisdom and sense of fairness are things that cannot be taught.  He surpasses me in this regard.

He reaches for my hands and presses my fingertips to his lips.  “I will not forget my promise to you,” he murmurs.  “I’ll be a good husband until the end of my last day.”

I lean into him, the sudden shift in weight causing him to nearly stumble, but my arms go around his waist and I steady us both as I kiss him firmly, lingeringly.  I remember his vow that night.  “I will give you good things, too, Peeta.  All the good things.”  I want to promise that there will only ever be good things, but I know I cannot make that guarantee.

His fingers slide deeply into my tresses – left down at Prim’s suggestion – and he groans softly, slanting his mouth against mine with urgency.  Rather than allow our lips to part, I open mine to draw a quick breath and Peeta reacts with a hungry sound, kneading my lips with his as his fingers caress the side of my neck and clench in my hair.

Nothing exists except for him and the irresistible pull to press myself closer, to feel his bare, hot skin beneath my fingertips.  My hands seek blindly up his chest, questing for his collar and the pulse I’ll be able to measure with a touch.

“Ahem!”

I startle and Peeta jerks back.  We both turn and stare.  My sister crosses her arms and arches her brows.

“You’re going to be late.”

I curse.  Haymitch is never going to let me hear the end of it if we are.  Peeta’s face is slightly flushed, but he remembers to offer me his arm.  Prim gives us a mockingly stern look before escorting us the rest of the way.  I don’t bother with a protest.  I think Peeta and I have just made it clear that we _do_ require a chaperone.  I glance at him and meet his sidelong gaze, which twinkles with mirth and burns with promises for later.

Prim holds up a hand as the threshold looms before us and I force myself to listen to what Haymitch is saying.

“… this evening to thank the men who have speedily escorted King Everdeen’s daughter home—”

He pauses and waits for the gasps and whispers to subside.  Apparently, some had not seriously considered the validity of the day’s gossip.  He then recognizes each of Gale’s company and the response from the crowd is thunderous.  I still owe them a show of gratitude, but I am glad everyone knows of the brave trek they had undertaken even if they are unaware of the rescue itself.  I cannot deny the relief I feel knowing that my time as a slave will not be known by my countrymen, but I am unhappy on Peeta’s behalf.  They cannot know his true worth if they do not know how weak and disadvantaged I had been.

“She returns to us, her task complete.  After spending three seasons as a guest of King Harald’s family, she brings with her a friend from Denmark: Harald’s own son, Peeta.”

The shock and disbelief is thick enough to cut and serve on a platter.

I take a deep breath and reaffirm my grip on Peeta’s arm.  Prim motions us forward and…

The hall is completely filled.  My gaze sweeps over the assembly, noting the fact that everyone is standing, each person clutching a cup or tankard or bull’s horn brimming with ale.  My heart pounds.  My throat is painfully dry, but my lips still burn and tingle from the kisses I’d shared with Peeta.  I focus on that.

My feet take us to my father’s chair.  I lean down to place my free hand upon his shoulder and press a kiss to his brow.  When I straighten, I smile for the crowd.  I can hear the whispers beginning, so I make my own announcement brief.

“It is good to be home.  Thank you, Gale, Boggs, Chaff, Thresh, Mason, Mitchell, and Thom for guaranteeing our safe passage.  And thank you, _all,_ for welcoming us.”  That is all I say.  Haymitch knows it’s pointless to ask for more than that from me in a speech.

“Friends!” my mentor invites, lifting his cup.  I hurriedly offer Peeta the one that had been provided at his place setting before turning my attention to my father.  He will probably not be able to lift his cup on his own, but his fingers are curled around it.  I scoop up mine.  Prim joins in the toast, standing on our father’s right, in the place usually occupied for Haymitch.  Beside her is my mentor and beside him is Gale.  The head table is full to capacity tonight.

“Let us honor the men who have died in battle, lets us soothe our hurts and rest our weary bodies, let us laugh with friends old… and new, and let us reach for an alliance – for _peace_ – for the sake of our children.”

He may be an insufferable ass, but Haymitch knows how to play to a crowd.  In a flash of insight, I see Peeta – some years from now – addressing our people thus.  Inspiring hope.  Simply by being who he is.

We all lift our cups to Haymitch’s words.  I take a quick sip and then lean down to assist my father with his cup.  Once it has been lowered from his lips and set back down onto the table, the feast begins.

Normally, as a guest, Peeta would be seated beside my father, his host, but I am the king’s daughter and it is my shared duty with Prim to ensure that my father eats, so I attend to him.  As I fill my father’s plate with small portions of the foods Prim approves, Peeta fills both his platter and mine.

I catch his eye and mouth my thanks.  He smiles and I’m reminded of that first night upon the road from Trelleborg.  I’d been so hesitant to eat my fill, wary of angering Káto.  It seems a ridiculous fear now that I look back on it, but Peeta’s care had touched me then as deeply as it does now.

I cut the meat and mash the boiled vegetables so that Prim can spoon the concoction into out father’s mouth.  She leans forward to press a kiss to his cheek as she massages his throat so that he can swallow.  He already looks tired.  I want to wrap him up in my arms and pass my strength into him.  I wonder how much I could really spare, in the end.  I feel so helpless now.

Peeta grasps my hand atop the table, his fingers curling around mine slowly.  It is a telling gesture, but I do not rebuke him for his openness.  It is simply his nature to offer me whatever I need.

Prim urges me to eat my own dinner, but I resolve to relieve her in a few minutes so that she might enjoy her food while it is hot.

I only manage a single bite before Peeta’s sudden show of confidence this evening impels me to ask, “Do you believe me now?”  I should have asked in the corridor, but I’d been, uh, preoccupied.

“What do you mean?” he whispers back.  “Believe you?  I’ve never doubted you.”

“You doubted,” I argue.  “You gave me the coins for my freedom and you believed I will leave.  Leave you.  Return to my family.”

He considers my halting explanation.  “That wasn’t doubt, Katniss.”

“Yes, it was.  You doubted… _you.”_  His expression shutters.  From his stubborn resistance, I know he understands what I’m trying to say.  I want to ask him what has changed his mind about becoming king – I cannot believe that he is doing all of this simply because I’d asked it of him – but that is not the matter of the moment.

I remind him, “Haymitch will speak after dinner.  Our betrothal.”  After that there will be no turning back.  “You will not see Káto or your father again… maybe.  This – everything – is new.  You think you will not miss them.”  I give him a hard look.  “You will.”

“I know.  I already do,” he confesses.  “But I meant what I said, Katniss.  I will stay with you always if you permit it, and… I spoke the truth yesterday: my family does not need me.  I will send word with one of the crews that next visits these shores so that my father and brother will know that I am well.  If it is _safe.”_

Safe for me, he means.  Safe for Samland.  He would let his family continue to suffer their worries and uncertainty over his fate – leave their questions unanswered – if it meant keeping me, my family, and my people, who are still strangers to him, safe.

“I wish…” I begin with a wondering shake of my head.  “I wish they knew…”

“Knew what?” he prompts, as ever seeking my thoughts, listening.

“You are _good,_ Peeta.”  I really need to learn more of his words.

He smiles crookedly.  His cheeks flush.  “For you, I will be my best.”

I shake my head.  His best will overwhelm me and I will never be worthy.  “No.  You will be you.  I want that.”

He beams.  I touch his hand.  Then I force myself to look away.  “Prim, have you tried the fowl?  It’s excellent.”

I take over her duties and spoon tiny mouthfuls of mashed food between our father’s lips, tilting his cup to dribble a little liquid down over his tongue so that it might ease the way as I massage his throat.  I meet my father’s gaze and I’m startled to see happiness, peace, trust.

Haymitch is right, I realize.  My father trusts my judgment.  I believe in Peeta and my father believes in my choice.  “We will make you proud, papa,” I promise.

His brows twitch and he sighs with fondness.  _You already have,_ he doesn’t – cannot – say, but I hear the words regardless.


	33. The Banquet

(Katniss)

 

My father retires to his room for the night before the minstrels begin to play, before the bard begins to sing our stories, before the contests showcasing male strength and stupidity in the bailey commence.  I collect Peeta’s arm with one hand and a pitcher of ale with the other.

“Come,” I say, “we must speak to everyone.”

“Everyone?” he checks, his brows arching.  There are a lot of people in attendance.

“Well, _many.”_   His jaw clenches.  I don’t want to talk to them, either, but this is not just for me.  This is for Peeta.  This is the next step in ensuring his safety here.  One step on the long road to him being accepted as my companion.  We have a very long way to go before the tribes will trust his judgment.  I try not to tense.  Peeta does not need the additional stress.

I have seen him interact with others often enough to know that he is not normally anxious around people.  He is much better at making and managing friends than I am.  His concern tonight is his ability to competently speak to my countrymen.  I remind him, “Remember the words?  We practiced this afternoon?”

“Yes, of course.”  He repeats them for me and, as he does, I press a different finger firmly against his arm.  That is our signal.  If he falters, I will nudge him to let him know which to use.  This is a game Haymitch had devised when I was younger and lacked the patience to even _listen_ to what the adults around me were saying much less decide how I ought to respond.  I would have been fine with continuing the pretense indefinitely but then my father had explained, quite clearly, how easy it would be for Haymitch to manipulate me, to put words in my mouth even with the best of intentions.  I am wary of doing that to Peeta.  I will have to tread carefully.

For tonight, though, he only has a few set phrases he needs to remember and, as we work our way through the room from one tribe leader to another, he uses them well.  I make the introductions – I will have endlessly exhausting dreams about this task, I’m sure – as I top off the nearest cup and answer the same questions over and over:

_“I was told you were on your sickbed.”_

“No, I was not ill.  That rumor was a kindness.”

_“How so?”_

“Suppose I’d failed to make any friends among Harald’s family?  I would rather I perished from memory due to an illness than suffer the shame.”

_“Why the swift and secretive return?”_

“I was told my father’s health was failing.  It was my duty to see him first and foremost.”

People are guardedly curious about Peeta, wanting to know how the food and drink and land are different in Denmark.  Very few ask about the mannerisms of his countrymen; they are not yet ready to think of those ever-battle-ready people as friends.

“Couldn’t tell me he was Harald’s son, huh?” Gale grumps when our paths eventually cross out-of-doors, in the golden light spilling over the threshold of the dining hall.

I don’t know if I _couldn’t_ confide in Gale,but I _hadn’t._   I clear my throat.

Gale refuses to let my lack of comment pass.  “Is it true?”  He thrusts his drinking horn in my direction and I grudgingly pour the ale as custom demands.

“Yes, it is true.”

“And you thought I’d do what?  Slit his throat in the name of my father?  Turn around and haul him back to Trelleborg for ransom?”

“Your words.”  I lay the blame on him even though I had thought exactly those things.  Peeta’s anonymity had been his best defense.

“That they are,” he agrees.  He takes a large swallow of ale, swaying on his feet a bit in the process.  I wonder how many cups he’s had thus far tonight.  It is unlike him to be so careless with drink.  “So.  I’m supposed to say what an honor it was to _escort_ you back home from your pleasant visit with Bluetooth.”

“Yes.”  Guilt makes my tone sluggish.  “If I’d been taken captive and you’d actually tracked me to Denmark with the goal of bringing me home, you would have been shown a great deal more appreciation for your efforts.”

His laugh is loud and bitter.  “Of course.”

I sigh.  “Gale…”

“No, no.  I understand.  It’s all Haymitch, right?  The old man always knows best.”

“Best is not the same thing as _right.”_

Gale’s gaze softens.  “Thank you for that, Cat-claw.  Really.  Thank you.”

I shrug awkwardly.  I don’t like the lie that Haymitch is perpetuating, but I am still a participant in it.

“Peeta,” Gale says suddenly, looking him squarely in the eye for perhaps the first time.  All of the attention he’d directed at Peeta prior to this had been squints of suspicion and calculating glares.  “Do you wrestle?”

Gale nods toward a wide ring of kindling… in the center of which two very drunk men are trying to knock each other over onto the frozen ground.

This is a very bad idea.  “Gale, you are drunk.”

“So?”

“What is the point of wrestling while drunk?”

“It’s more fun that way.  Come on, Peeta,” Gale invites with a wolfish grin.  “Cat-claw just admitted that you know how.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Hm, I think you did.  What say you, Peeta, son of Harald Bluetooth?”

I swing toward Peeta, ready to explain the insanity Gale is proposing and _strongly_ advise him against it.  He meets my gaze.  His blue eyes sparkle.  His lips quirk up in a knowing smile that makes my stomach feel strangely light and tingly.  Without a word, he reaches up and unfastens his cape.

“Excellent!” Gale approves.

I bite back a groan.  Peeta winks at my nonplussed frown and gently settles the cloak around my shoulders.  “It is cold this evening,” he explains.  He raises my free hand to his lips and thoughtfully adds, “I will be careful with him.”

“Don’t,” I bite out.  Gale deserves to get exactly what he’s asking for.

Peeta laughs.  People turn their heads and gawp as he claps Gale on the shoulder and gestures toward the ring.

“Here, hold this,” Gale orders, thrusting his drinking horn at me.

“Shove it up your ass,” I reply, refusing to assist.

“Oh, come now.  You’re under _his_ mantle.  Surely, you can drink from _my_ cup?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Eh.”  With an indifferent shrug, he drops the empty horn into the nearly-empty ale pitcher and saunters off, pulling ahead of Peeta easily and bellowing at the idiots in the ring to either end the match or take it elsewhere.

My hands tighten around the jug until I wonder if the wood will crack.  It would be a pity if it did; this pitcher is destined to bash my old friend Gale on the head once he dares to come back within range.

I refuse to watch too closely as they strip off their tunics and shifts before facing off in the breath-pluming cold.

“I had a hunch I’d find you here.”

“Haymitch,” I bite out.

“You’re not even watching?”

“Why would I?”

“Well… since they’re both acting like billy goats in rut just to impress you, you _might_ deign to act like you care.”

“I might not.”

He shrugs.  “Suit yourself.”  He watches the on-goings in the ring for a moment.  “Buttercream’s a decent fighter, hand-to-hand.”

“Oh?”

The crowd roars.

“He’s got Gale pinned.”

“Hm.”

Haymitch wheezes with humor and takes a pull from his flask.  “I guess I’ll head back inside and tell the minstrels to give it a rest so everyone can hear the bard.”

“You do that.”

“Oh, and dumpling?”

I’d hit him if I didn’t need the old codger’s wits unscrambled.  “What?” I snarl.

“You might want to put some effort into your smitten grin and maidenly blush.  You know, for the crowd?”

He saunters off in the general direction of the dining hall.  With a resigned sigh, I turn back around.  Peeta and Gale are squaring off for what sounds like the third time according to the odds being shouted by those with coins to spend.

For a single, breathless moment, both men pause, frozen like twin waterfalls in the depths of winter.  And then something – a twitch of an eyelid or hand – triggers the explosion.  They crash together in a blur of surging arms and rolling shoulders.  Peeta sidesteps neatly, and Gale – having committed his full weight to overpowering Peeta – loses his balance.

Peeta wins.  All three rounds go to him.

I endeavor not to look impressed, but Peeta’s boyish grin when he limps over to me, wiping his brow with his bunched up shift, is irresistible.  He breathes a little heavily, not nearly as harshly as after a match with his brother, but he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to dress himself.

My gaze follows the contours of his muscled chest down from his collarbones, over his sternum, to-and-fro over his taut belly before funneling toward the waist of his trousers and the dusting of pale hair leading my attention further south.

“Warm enough?” he inquires solicitously.

“It’s a nice cloak.  Maybe I will keep it,” I retort, forcing my gaze away and back toward the dining hall.

“It suits you,” he approves.  Out of the corner of my eye, I see him tilt his head toward the firelight spilling out into the baily from indoors.  Other fires are scattered around us, one is roasting a deer for the midnight feasting – the sustenance our bodies will demand after we have danced through our first dinner and burned through our first ale-gotten flush.  But first… first…

My throat dries.  My tongue swells.  I know what comes next.  Any moment now the music will pause and then the bard will call everyone back in-doors for an announcement. 

“Are you anxious?” he murmurs.

Is he teasing?  I cannot tell.  “You cannot read that from my face?”

“You’re terrified.”

I whirl on him.  He is not smiling.  I pause.

He asks softly, “Do you want this?”

He shouldn’t be asking me that question.  I know he won’t like my answer: I want to keep him safe – I want to keep _him_ – but my wants must not come before the needs my people.  That is why I am working so hard to make sure Peeta is what _they_ need.  “I want you…” I begin slowly with a solemn expression.

I think he holds his breath.

“…to wear your shift and tunic.”

He blinks.

I add innocently, “Please.”

Peeta releases a very long, hot breath.  “You torment me.”

“You enjoy it.”

“Yes,” he agrees on a chuckle, speaking to the fabric he’s trying to untangle, “I do.”

After he pulls his clothing back on, I make him take the cloak back despite my threat to withhold it from him.  Just as he double knots the leather cord at the front – I hadn’t had time to carve a fancy, wooden fastening for it – the music from within the dining hall silences.

The bard calls out: “Come, friends and gather near!  Glad tidings there are to hear!”

I take deep breath.  This is it.  I take Peeta’s hand.  “You remember the words?  Um.  You will say them?” I check.

“Yes, Katniss.”  It is a simple answer, but his gaze is loaded with every fine thing in the world.  Well, he’d promised to give me only good things.  This look counts as such.  Yes, it definitely counts.

“Stay with me?” I hear myself whisper.

He lifts my hand to his lips again.  “You never have to ask because my answer will never change.”

I bite my lip to contain my smile and lead him into the hall.


	34. Announcement

(Katniss)

 

The words are easier to say than I had anticipated.  I simply look into Peeta’s eyes, tighten my grasp on his hands, and ask.  Perhaps my tone is not as warm as it should be, not as welcoming or lively.  I am not good at saying things.  It is unfair that Peeta is and yet his words are unfamiliar and meaningless to anyone other than me.

Everyone had been prepared for this moment by Haymitch.  As the festivities had halted, he’d spoken for a second time this evening and I’d taken care to move slowly through the crowd with Peeta, minimizing his limp and letting everyone get a good look at him.  His smile had been far friendlier than mine and I’d watched his presence charm the crowd, softening their suspicion and shock, coaxing something soft and tentative from these careworn faces.

They had all looked their fill as Haymitch had droned on about friendship and family and alliances and the significance of a binding between a man and a woman.  Seeing my arm through Peeta’s, everyone had begun to realize just where this evening would lead and they’d all wanted a second look at their future king.

There are still many wide eyes and a few squints – a sour expression here and there – but I’m not troubled by them.  Peeta will win them over in time.  I just have to ensure that he is given the opportunity.

It begins now as I stand upon the dais facing the man who saved my life, who protected me, who empowered me with words and offered me his unceasing friendship and trust. 

I meet his blue-eyed gaze and address him plainly, “Peeta, son of Harald of Denmark.”  His fingers brush over mine in a comforting caress.  I have chosen him, just as he has chosen me.  We have chosen each other.  “Do you give your life and your service to the people of Samland?  In return, you shall have me for your wife.”

I then caress the backs of his fingers with my thumbs, prompting him to speak.

He draws in a deep breath and says in my language, through a loving smile, “It is an honor, Katniss, daughter of Everdeen.  I accept.”

The minstrels begin a spritely tune which doesn’t so much drown out the applause as it fills in the empty spaces, supplementing the reluctant praise from the pockets of people who have not yet received a portion of Peeta’s endearing smile.  A shout of congratulation goes up from the doorway as the men from the wrestling match loudly and drunkenly approve.  Peeta gives them a friendly grin and a wave.  Perhaps I had misjudged that wrestling match entirely; it looks as if Peeta has made some friends.

I smile, too.

Haymitch bumps my arm with his elbow.  Sending a pointed look at Peeta’s left leg, he mutters, “I’ll assume the betrothal dance is out the question.”

“The… _what?”_   What dance?

He cackles evilly.

“You are joking.”  He had better be.

I can’t recall the last time I’d seen Haymitch look so incredulous.  When I continue scowling back at him, he shakes his head.  “Oh, no.  It’s no joke.  There is a dance you’re supposed to do, but if _you_ don’t even know it…”  He shrugs.

“Well, why _would_ I?”  My mother had died before I’d reached womanhood and Haymitch had never bothered to tell me these things.  “Can’t I just shoot something?”  At least my father had taught me archery.

He laughs.  Standing next to us, Peeta contributes a small smile.  He’s enjoying the exchange despite the fact that he doesn’t understand us.

“Keep up with your hostess duties, dumpling,” Haymitch finally manages, giving up on making a true lady out of me.  I’m hopeless.  We both know this.  “Where is the ale pitcher?”

“I left it in the bailey for Gale,” I grumble.

“Oh, that’s friendly,” my mentor intones sarcastically.  “Peeta gets you and Gale gets the empty jug.”

Why do those words hurt me?  Because despite how irritating he is, Gale deserves more from me than that.  “I’ll speak to him.”

“Not before he cools off, you won’t.”

I blink at Haymitch’s stern look.  Gale is _angry?_   Over losing the wrestling match?  I search my memory and I think I recall seeing him laughing with Boggs just afterward.  No, he’d been in a fine mood despite the loss.  So why would he—?

Oh.  Yes.  The announcement.  I’d known he wouldn’t like the thought of me marrying a Northman.  Not at all.

I reach for Haymitch’s arm before he can slink away and pickle himself with ale.  “You did not tell him?  You said nothing to him of any of this?”

“Why would I?” he returns sharply.  “Gale’s feelings are _your_ territory, dumpling.”

“His… _what?”_  Haymitch cannot possibly be implying that Gale is fond of me _that way._

He huffs.  “Dumpling, see it from his perspective.  Ever since he’d risen through the ranks, everyone has assumed your father would choose him for you.”  I can’t argue with him; I’d assumed the very same thing.  But my father never _had_ chosen Gale for me.  He’d never even seemed to consider it, not once in all the years Gale and I have known each other.

I wonder why.

Haymitch sighs.  Interpreting my silence as a different kind of confusion, he explains, “Gale assumed it would be you asking _him_ for his life and service.  The poor fool probably planned his whole future around it.  Let him lick his wounds in peace.”

I’ve failed Gale.  The blow strikes me squarely and harder than any Cray could have managed.  I am breathless.  I am furious.  Why does Haymitch permit me to make these kinds of errors when he sees them so easily?

“Let him alone for a while before you blunder and stomp all over his ego and make things worse.”

I ignore him, contrarily scanning the hall for my childhood friend.  I cannot see him anywhere.  Had he even been in-doors for the announcement?  I am ashamed to realize that I hadn’t even looked for him.

“This was your choice,” my mentor adds quietly.

I bristle.  “I don’t regret it.”

“Good.”  Haymitch nods once and takes a step back, mercifully ending the conversation.

Peeta inches forward until our arms brush.  He places his warm hand upon my back and rubs slow circles against my taut muscles.  The gesture is cleverly concealed – a moment of secret intimacy in a crowded room.  I don’t deserve his consideration.

Angling his chin and brining his head close to mine, he asks softy against my ear, “We aren’t supposed to dance, are we?”  My laughter is harsh, but I feel better for it.  I smile at him and he explains, “People are looking at us expectantly.”

“Yes, there is a dance.  But I do not know it.”

“Oh.  Does that mean we may perform a kiss for them instead?”

His bright blue eyes tempt me.  Oh, how they tempt me.  “Your kisses are _mine,”_ I remind him.  “Only mine.  I do not share.”

He beams.  “I’ll remember that.”

When he offers me his arm and collects an abandoned ale pitcher, my smile is renewed.  My heart swells to the point of bursting with pride as he gently but simply requests of a server, “Would you, please?”

The older woman is obviously flustered to be addressed by the handsome foreigner who is now my betrothed.  She fumbles a bit as she fills the pitcher from the barrel and then hands it back to him with a small nod of deference.

Peeta flushes and meets my gaze.  He looks uncomfortable and boyish.  “This will take some getting used to.  Um.  Being important.  Sort of.”

I chuckle and sigh.  “You are always important.”

“I thank you, Katniss,” he intones slowly but clearly in my own language.

Silly, beautiful man.  He does not realize that it is _I_ who owe him thanks.  Perhaps I’ll explain later.  Perhaps not.  His obliviousness is one of the things I love about him.


	35. Whispers in the Dark

(Katniss)

 

“What is troubling you?”

The sound of Peeta’s voice in the darkness does not surprise me.  Dawn is not far away but neither of us can sleep.  The fuss and the flurry of the feast still vibrates in the air like a fading birdcall.  Everyone is surely abed by now, like Peeta and me.  Villagers beside home-hearths and guests upon the tables and benches in the dining hall.

Here, in the privacy of my bed chamber, once the lamp wick had been extinguished, I’d abandoned the pretense of keeping polite distance between us, curling up with my betrothed upon my bed of furs.  I lie against his side, resting my head on his shoulder.  I can feel his fingertips trailing gently over and through my unbound hair, coaxing me to share the weighty thoughts keeping me from slumber.

But I do not want to think about my troubles now.  I want to drift off to sleep wrapped up in the scent and warmth of him, the feel of his body pressed against mine, the rhythm of his breath.  I want to close my eyes and dream of his smiles – shy, confident, laughing, tender… all of them.

He had filled our guests’ cups for me after the betrothal announcement, trying so hard to understand what everyone around him had been thinking, trying so hard to offer them his friendship as he had offered it to me.  I had been in awe; his head must have been throbbing from the strain of trying to decipher the undecipherable, but his cheer had never diminished.  He’d won over so many people tonight with his boyish enthusiasm and eager generosity.  It should have been my job to fill the cups, but he’d taken the ale pitcher and insisted:

“You are their leader, Katniss.  I am your companion.  What does it matter if tradition says otherwise?  Let’s show them things as they are.”

So we had.

It would be foolish to believe that Peeta and I have conquered wariness and suspicion in one night, but we have taken many of their supporters and tentatively made them our own.  At least until Alma hears this news and has his say.

“Katniss?  I know you’re not sleeping.”

“I’m not,” I admit.

“Speak,” he urges quietly, still petting my hair.

“You did well tonight,” I offer, struggling to give him something other than doubt.

He hums in question.

“Yes,” I confirm confidently.

“But Alma will counter, will he not?  He’ll not let this pass any more than you forgave his scheming.”

He’s right.  I don’t tell him so.  “You made many friends.  Smiles and ale…  Wrestling was a good idea.”

His breath rolls out of him like an echo of laughter.  “I was anxious.  I needed, um, exercise.”

Beating Gale had certainly helped, then.  That might not work a second time given what Haymitch had told me.

“Where was Gale?” Peeta asks with uncanny timing.  “He disappeared after the match.”

I don’t know what to say.  I draw small, meaningless circles over the notch between his collarbones.

“Katniss?”  His fingers stop moving.  I sense them curling, clenching in my hair as if I’ll slip from his grasp like mist.

I confess.  “Haymitch did not speak to him before.  He did not know, um.  I asked you and he was surprised.”

The silence breathes harshly around us.  Both Peeta and I hold our breath.

“You were promised to him.  Betrothed,” he summarizes, sounding hurt.  He believes I’d lied to him.

I shake my head.  “No, I wasn’t.  We are friends from childhood.  Everyone thought… um.  Gale thought I will ask him.  I think.  I don’t know.”  But I do.  Gale had been expecting to marry me, to be king, and I hadn’t even done him the courtesy of explaining things beforehand.

Peeta lets out a long breath and curses softly at the ceiling.

“My father did not choose him,” I add quietly, fumbling after absolution.  “I did not choose him.”

“Why not?”

Peeta holds himself very still.  I take care with my answer.  “He is a strong fighter.  A good man.  But he is angry.  Um.  Impatient,” I add, remembering the word Peeta had taught me.  The scent of cut oat stalks and chaff accompanies the memory.  Had that been during the harvest?  Half a year ago?  It feels as if it had happened in another lifetime.  I suppose that’s because it had: a lifetime in which I’d been another me, a Katniss who had worn a collar made of hardened leather rather than one crafted from the undefeatable material of birthright.  “Gale is not skilled at… um, king… a king’s duties.”

He laughs harshly.  “And I am?”

“Yes.”

He sobers.  “Katniss…”

“You were a king tonight.  You smiled.  Gave everyone ale.  You give _you._   That is a king’s duty.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

We both know it is not, so I don’t try to persuade him otherwise.  “Simple is first,” I counsel.  “Difficult is later.”  If I have learned anything from my time as a slave in a foreign land, it is that.  Do what you are capable of doing first, and then build upon that foundation so that you can face the next challenge calmly.  Anger and frustration will only trip your feet and cause you to stumble.

“I’m sorry,” Peeta whispers, his lips moving against the crown of my head.  “I promised you my best.  I will do better.”

“You doubt.  That is fine – sometimes.  But you must believe me.”  My fingers curl into the fabric of his shift, making sure he does not ignore me.

I feel him smile.  “I understand.  You are so good to me, Katniss.  Fiercely good.”

I do not know that word.  “Fierce?” I echo uncertainly.

“Strong and angry.  Fierce.”

He’d meant to compliment me, but I wince.  “I will not hurt you… again.”

“Again?”

I wordlessly reach across his chest and collect his other hand.  Bringing it close, I press my lips to his wrist.  I am sorry for the ropes.  For the theft of the only life he has ever known.  “Again.”

He brushes my hair back from my temple.  He forgives me on a shakily exhalation: “You had to.  They did not trust me.  They would not have trusted you if you hadn’t.”

I nod sadly.  Suddenly, it all makes sense.  I’d been so focused on ensuring Haymitch’s cooperation in keeping Peeta safe that I’d never offered any explanation to the others.  No wonder Gale had been so confused.  Boggs, Thresh, Chaff, Mason, Mitchell, and Thom...  They had started the return journey with a captive… who will soon be king.  I should speak with all of them.  They deserve some measure of truth from me.

“What will you say to Gale?” Peeta asks with reluctance.

“Some truth,” I admit.  “No lies.”

“That is a good plan.”

Silence wraps around us again.  Peeta’s fingers continue moving.  “You cannot sleep?” I murmur.

He sighs with defeat.

“Why?” I press.  I had revealed my troubles.  It is time for him to reveal his.

“I… I’m waiting for you to tell me this – me coming here with you – was a mistake.  And… my first inclination is fear because I don’t wish to leave… but I should, shouldn’t I?  I ought to want to see Káto and Kolfrosta, the children, Sigga, my father.  I know I should want that, but I… I just want you.  And this chance to help.  I’ve never done a thing like this, Katniss.”

Neither have I.  Although we are confronting different things, he and I.  Taking different risks.  For Peeta, it is king-ship.  For me, it is my own heart.  I understand his dilemma with regards to his family – had I not endured the same painful decision a little over a fortnight ago in Denmark? – but I cannot give him the answer to it.  It must be his decision: to stay or leave.  Once Alma is stripped of his supporters, Peeta could leave.

I squeeze my eyes shut.  My silent protest is devoured by the dark.

“You are not alone,” I mouth in the darkness.  The words are for him, and they are for me.

I’m not alone: from the moment Peeta had first seen me on the road outside the gates of his father’s fortress, I hadn’t been alone.  That gift means more to me than anything.  I had known loneliness in the fury of battle and aboard the endlessly rocking ship, my spirit mired in uncertainty.  And then… Peeta.  Like the first light of dawn, like the coming of spring, there he was, hand extended, palm open.

I may stand alone again, but not today.  Nor tomorrow.  I trust him to remain for as long as I need him.

My hand moves in the darkness, seeking and finding his.  I fit our palms together.  Sleep is still a long time in coming, but I do not mind the wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, don't go and assume that there's gonna be a love triangle. Just stick with me here for a bit and we'll eventually pry Gale's thoughts out of him. (^_~)


	36. Missing the Target

(Katniss)

 

Archery has always helped me think.  Although thinking while actually shooting arrows at a target is not particularly practical, I have found that the process of focusing intently on a thing that is completely unrelated to my troubles tends to clear the way for a solution to present itself.

I have used this technique often in the past with success.  Today, it abandons me.

“Well, you’re up early.”

I don’t look away from the target.  “Gale.”  I blow out a breath through my gritted teeth.  I’m not ready to talk to him, but when he comes to a stop just a little too close to me and settles his hands on his hips, I accept the fact that I have run out of time to think.

I sight… exhale… release.  Center-target shot.  A finger’s width to the left of perfection.  It’s been too long since I’ve practiced.

“Nice morning,” he greets.

“It’s raining.”

I don’t have to look up to know that Gale is giving me a sarcastic grin.  “Then we won’t be disturbed out here, will we?”

We might.  Peeta has a line of sight to me from the outdoor kitchen across the bailey.  That had been one of the points that had reassured me when we’d split up this morning.  The other had been his choice of company: he’d proposed helping Prim prepare our father’s breakfast.

“Take as much time as necessary,” he’d urged this morning, stopping me from unlatching the door and letting the rest of the world in.  “Sort out your thoughts.”

I have been trying.  I’d cleared my head and waited – too impatiently, perhaps – for the answer to come to me: namely, what I was and, more importantly, _wasn’t_ prepared to tell the men who had risked their lives to bring me home.  What I could and could _not_ say to Gale by way of explanation.

I suspect that Gale’s reaction will determine whether or not our discussion is interrupted.  Peeta will not be able to keep himself from interceding if things start to get unpleasant.  And, honestly, I would want him here at my side were that to occur.  For reasons twine: my unignorable need to protect him and the tangible presence of his devotion which me gives me a strength that feels unbreakable.

“Where are the others?” I ask, thinking of Mason, Mitchell, Thresh, Chaff, and Boggs.  Thom has no skill in weaponry that I’m aware of, but it would be beneficial to have him join the group this morning.  I don’t relish the thought of having to explain myself more than once.

“They’ll be here soon.”

I nod and reach for another arrow from the quiver.

“But I thought you and I could speak.  In private.”

I shrug.  This is as private as I am prepared to allow.  “Speak.”  I can’t stop my lips from twitching upward in reaction: Peeta had said the very same word to me the night before.

“Who is Peeta?  Really?”

“He is the younger son of King Harald.  _Really,”_ I answer, nocking the arrow, lining up the point with the next target, and drawing the bowstring taut.  I expect Gale to try to disprove the claim by citing the worn clothing Peeta had been dressed in for travel, but with his next words I realize I’ve underestimated my childhood friend.

“Is he your master?”

My arm wobbles but my fingers clutch the arrow tightly, preventing a misfire.  “What?  _No.”_

“Who was?”

“You assume I had one.”

He rolls his eyes upward and he shakes his head at the shooting gallery’s ceiling rafters.  “You can try to convince me that leather collar you were wearing was some kind of ornament, but you’ll fail.”

He’s right.  I can’t give him a plausible alternative for that damned collar other than what it had been: a mark of enslavement.

He gives me a second chance.  “So, who is Peeta to you?”

“He is my betrothed,” I answer honestly.

Gale’s eyes narrow as he dissects my reply.  “In Denmark?”

I think of that moment in the forest, just a short walk from the campfire.  For that instant— “He was my betrothed.”

Gale scowls at me in confusion.  I take advantage of the quiet to sight and shoot.  Better.  Just a hair’s breadth off of center this time.  Of course, a moving target will be the truest test—

“And what else?”

With a huff, I turn and look at him.  Over his shoulder, I can see Peeta standing just under the awning of the outdoor kitchen.  Watching.  Gale follows my gaze.  The muscles along his jaw bunch and he crosses his arms.  “Maybe we should move this meeting in-doors after all,” he suggests.

“No.  Here is fine.”  I do not want Peeta out of my sight.

Gale whips back around, his eyes flashing.  Through gritted teeth, he demands, “Tell me, Katniss.  What is he threatening you with?  I will— _we_ will help you.”

I gape.  “Threaten?”  Of all the utterly insane assumptions he could make, Gale comes up with _this?_

“Nothing else makes sense,” he insists.  “Come, tell me.  You must have been waiting for me to see it and say something.  Well, I’m saying something.”

I am speechless.

“It doesn’t have to happen now, of course, but when you need help, say the word.  Or… we should decide on a signal…”  He trails off in thought before motion in the distance catches our attention.  Thresh rounds the corner of the keep, followed by the others.  Thom, included.

“And this marriage,” Gale whispers in a rush, “I can guess why you might have to submit to it, but you do not have to submit to _him._   All right?  He cannot force you to do anything against your will.  He—”

Just then, Prim exits the outdoor kitchen with a tray for our father.  Peeta glances questioningly in my direction.  I nod for him to go with her.  He does.  That is what _I_ see.

Gale sees something completely different.  “Did he threaten Primrose?”

I shake my head and hold up my hand.  I need a moment.  How had this gotten so twisted up in Gale’s mind?  Oh, yes.  Because he in incapable of imagining that Peeta, despite being from the same country as our enemies, might be a good man and worthy of my regard.

“Katniss?” Mitchell asks, jogging ahead of Thresh and ducking under the shed roof.  He forgoes any attempt at greeting.  “What trickery is Haymitch trying to pull?”

I wait until everyone is assembled and out of the downpour.  “There is no trickery.  Haymitch spoke the truth.   Peeta is Harald’s son _and_ Peeta is a friend to us.”

Thresh and Boggs exchange looks.  Thom’s brows arch.  Mitchell’s eyes narrow.  I don’t have to look at the faces of the others to know they don’t believe me, either.  I curse.

“The truth now,” Gale insists.  “Trust us.  Haven’t we earned that?”

“First and foremost,” I begin, my frustration pushing the words out faster than I can weigh them, “I have no fear of Peeta.  None.  Why do you think I took him with me into the woods after our arrival?”

I don’t expect the answer I’m given.  I don’t know why.

Mason places a fatherly hand on my shoulder.  “To scout the fortress for weaknesses.”

“Scout,” I echo dumbly.  “As in _spy?”_   Do they really think I would _aid_ an enemy’s attempts to learn our defenses?

“No one is saying you willingly helped him, but…”  He shrugs.  “His father is one of our enemies.”

My first inclination is to argue: Peeta did not even know our destination until we’d arrived.  How could they possibly think he could plan something like that?  And just how do they think he would he pass the information on to his countrymen when none of them know what has become of him?  They are inventing a conspiracy woven from the brittle chains of fear.

I take a deep breath and try to organize my thoughts.  With a single wrong utterance, this conversation could spiral out of control.  I have perhaps one more chance to speak before their minds are set.  I have to make it count.  I have to take a risk.

“When you came upon us in the forest in Denmark—”  I aim my words at Gale first, but then seek out the eyes of each man.  “—what did you think you were interrupting?”

Before anyone can articulate their suspicions as if they were fact, I tell them, “We were returning to the farmstead of Peeta’s brother after the spring gathering at the fortress… and Peeta – _the king’s own son_ – had just asked me to be his wife.”  I took a deep breath.  “I accepted.  _That_ was what you saw.  I was not in his embrace unwillingly.”

“But you were not free to refuse him,” Gale insists.

“Yes, I was.”  But I cannot tell them that I had just turned down Peeta’s offer to send me home.  I cannot do that to these brave men, my allies, my friends.  Nor can I tell them that I had given up hope of ever seeing my father and sister again.  That admission will only aid Gale’s argument that my choices had been limited.  “I chose to promise myself to the son of the king of Denmark.  This is a good match, and now that he is here, Peeta is willing to help us form a peaceful alliance with his father’s country.”

Gale squints at me.  “That’s why you insisted we spare his life?”

One of many reasons.  “Yes.”

“But why is he cooperating?” Thresh muses aloud.  I recognize that it is the worst kind of question of all:  a leading one.  He already has an answer to it that he wishes to share.  “He believes he’ll tuck Samland under his father’s mantle along with Denmark.  Make slaves of all of us.”

“No—”

“You don’t see it, Katniss,” Chaff agrees sadly, “but we do.  He will hand this land over to his father.  We’ll be overrun with Northmen seeking our amber, ruling our villages, forcing their gods upon us.”

I cut in.  “Peeta did not know who I was until he arrived here!  How could he plot all of this when he didn’t even know my father’s identity?”

“Well, if he wasn’t plotting it before, he is now,” Boggs predicts darkly.  “He’d be a fool not to.”

“Then he is a fool!” I snarl.  Oh, how good it feels to just give myself over to my fury.  I want to scream at them, tell them how Peeta saved my life, explain how he’d patiently taught me his language and never once touched me with force or asked me for the use of my body or _anything nearly as disgusting as what they debase themselves by imagining._   “He is a fool,” I repeat slowly, “but I am not.  He has a purpose here, one that works in our favor.”

Gale stubbornly shakes his head.  “We can fight the Northmen on our own.  We don’t need him.”

“Do you say that because you welcome their arrival?  You want the chance to kill more of them to avenge your father?”  His jaw clenches again.  His grey eyes simmer with temper.  I jab my finger at his chest.  “Those men have sons, too.  And fathers.  Wives, mothers.  With Peeta as my companion, I have a chance to forestall further bloodshed on both sides.”

“They deserve death!”

“And Rory?  What of him?  If not this year, then certainly the next, he’ll be out there with an ax and shield.  Will you risk your own brother’s life when I can offer another way?”  I step back and straighten.  I can hear my breaths blasting over the sound of the unending rain.  A pale face in the distance – Peeta standing in the downpour outside the entrance of the dining hall – soothes my fury.

“Give this plan a chance,” I say flatly.  I would implore, but I simply don’t have the energy required.  “Peeta can – and will – help us.”

I wait while they exchange glances and decide in silence.  “One chance,” Mason agrees, “and only because we love you as much as we do, Katniss.”

His choice of words surprises me.  _Love,_ he had said.  Not _trust._

I have to accept that.  Just as I have not trained and fought and bled and _trusted_ them for nearly a year, they have not done the same with me.  My actions since my rescue have broken the bond we’d forged together.  We will have to begin again.  Re-form our friendship.

There is nothing I can do or say to change their minds.  They are giving me all that they can.  I nod.  Thrusting the quiver of practice arrows into Thom’s shivering hands, I stalk across the bailey.

“Katniss!  Wait!”

Gale again.  My fingers curl even tighter around my bow.  I have nothing more to say to him.

He is not so disinclined.  “I meant it.  About the marriage.  He has no power over you here.”

I want to hit him in the jaw.  I look away from Peeta, still waiting for me in the rain and getting soaked to the skin.  I stomp to a halt.  Facing Gale, I explain with exaggerated care, “Marriage in Denmark was Peeta’s idea.  I agreed.  Marriage to him here is mine.  My choice.  Do you understand?”

Gale leans down, nearly pressing his nose to mine.  “And I have no choice at all.  That’s what I understand.  For some reason – perhaps one that begins and ends with Haymitch and some scheme known only to him – your father approves of this.  I won’t be your husband. I have no say in the matter and that is _not_ my choice.  Do _you_ understand?”

I think I do.  I don’t want to.  “No promises were ever made,” I remind him.

“I didn’t think they’d be needful.”

Again, words abandon me.

“Katniss,” he rallies, “the seven of us came after you.  We brought you back.  We are offering you our allegiance.  You know this marriage is not necessary and, besides, these arrangements often fail!  Why do you persist if you are not in league with Harald?”

“Did you… did you just accuse me of treason?  Against my own father?”

“No, I’m just…  I’m trying to understand you!”

“I don’t think you want to.”  I turn away.

He hooks a hand around my arm.  “The only other explanation is that you actually want… _him.”_   Gale’s face twists with disgust.

I would rather die than deny the one truth I value above all others, so I say nothing.  When I pull my arm from his grasp, Gale lets me go.


	37. Needful Friends

(Peeta)

 

Katniss offers to share the bench with me, welcoming me beneath a quilt made from scraps of fur, and passes a cup of steaming pork-bone broth and spring onions into my hands.  As I let the warmth of it singe my fingers, she adjusts the quilt around us both.  The fire in the hearth of her father’s meeting room softly toasts my knees.  It will take time for us both to dry out and warm up.  Time well-spent.

I offer the cup back to her and murmur my thanks as our fingers brush.  It’s not until she has taken a cautious sip that I realize I’d spoken the words in her tongue, not mine.  I’m starting to understand what a monumental effort this will be: staying with Katniss, giving my word to help her in whatever way I can… although I’m still not sure how to do that.  My head aches, but I refuse to massage my scalp.  If I acknowledge the pain, then that means it will have beaten me.

“How is your leg?” Katniss asks, first in my language and then in hers.  Little by little, she is teaching me.

“My leg,” I repeat, sounding out the new words before speaking in my first language once more, “It is fine.  It’s just the weather.  It aches when it is cold and wet.”

Katniss echoes my reply in her tongue, pausing after each word so that I know where one ends and another begins.  I scoot a little closer to her wiry warmth.

“Gale?” I prompt and my voice is hard, like the iron in Katniss’ eyes.  My hesitance has melted away completely.  I need to know.

She speaks to me in my own language, wielding it like a shield against eavesdroppers.  “He thinks you will take our country.  Give it to your father.  We will be slaves.”

“No!”

Katniss slides an arm around my waist and shushes me.  The door to the next room is open.  Her father is sleeping.  She passes me the cup again.  I take it and drink.  My face feels like I have borrowed her scowl.

I whisper, “Tell them of my past.  Tell them I know how heavy that yoke is and that I would never willingly put it on another person.”  It had injured me to allow Katniss to be collared.  I still feel that wound.  A regret that will never heal.

She whispers, “Tell them about your collar?  I can’t.  They cannot believe – you are Harald’s son _and_ you were a slave.  They cannot believe these two things.”

The first gives me some measure of value, although the second might make me more trustworthy.  To avoid facing my own frustration, I look at Katniss.  Her unsettled frown draws me in.  “There is something you are not telling me.”

She sighs.  “Gale wants to fight.  To kill your countrymen.”  Her grey eyes are caged with worry.

I draw in a deep breath.  “Then, how do we dissuade him?”

She shakes her head, at a loss.

It is in this moment, seated with Katniss and enjoying the warmth of her father’s hearth, that the true weight of my actions comes to bear.  I have to choose.  I have to choose between the lives of my people and the wellbeing of Katniss’.

I am not ready for this, but I have to be.  Katniss needs me.  I must not fail her.

I bite my lip.  I make my decision.  I say, “My countrymen respect strong adversaries with smart defenses.”

She considers this for a long moment.  “So we must prepare.”

We do.  Katniss calls a meeting that afternoon and she insists that I attend.  Haymitch smirks at me while the men who had conceived and carried out Katniss’ rescue glare and glower.  These six men – Gale, Mason, Mitchell, Thresh, Chaff, and Boggs – must be the best of Samland’s warriors.  They do not want me here, but I will not leave Katniss’ side.

It is only Katniss’ steady presence and swift translations that keep me focused on the task at hand rather than my simmering resentment; these men have no concept of what I would give – what I have already given – for Katniss’ sake.  None at all.  I want to ask them what they see when they look at Katniss.  Do they not see a woman worth following?  They should.  They are her people.  Why am I the only one among them who is unreserved in his devotion?

But these questions will not be answered here and now.  Other things demand our attention.

“We need watch towers,” Katniss announces.  “It’s long past time.”

From what I catch of Haymitch’s response, Samland had once been guarded by several, but they’d been destroyed by unfriendly, neighboring tribes so many times that people had given up on rebuilding them.

“Then hide them,” I advise, speaking to Katniss.  “In the trees or underground.”  I gesture with my hands as I speak, so the idea mists into the discussion before she has conveyed it to the others.  The looks I receive become even more wary: my idea is a good one and that makes me dangerous.

I don’t even attempt to offer to help with the site selection or actual construction.  They do not trust me and I will not put Katniss in a position to advocate for me further.  “What can I do here?” I ask instead.  “If we have warning of an attack, people will wish to save their livestock.  Is the fort in need of additional stables or pens?  Is the granary large enough?  I can help build those.”

Katniss confers with Haymitch, who nods, muttering and gesturing in my direction.  His approval seems more indifferent than anything else, but Katniss is pleased.

“We have a lot of work to do,” she says, hopping off of her bench and tugging once on my arm.

I assume the meeting is over.

Gale watches me closely as I follow her out of the meeting room.  The look he sends after us brings to mind the slinking form of a dog that does not trust his master’s new friend, warmly welcomed across the threshold or not.  I do not like that look, not because of what it might bode for me, but for Katniss.  Gale is supposed to be her ally.  His distrust is a blow to her security here in the fortress where she _ought_ to be safe from threats.

My fury reignites.

I smash it back down.

Why do these men – comrades of Katniss’ – not see her clearly?  What can I do to open their eyes?

I send a silent prayer to the gods, asking for guidance.  I have never needed it more.  Suddenly, my betrothal to Katniss is about far more than simply emulating the manner of a good king.  Suddenly, I realize the monumental undertaking I have accepted in promising to be a good husband.  I must protect Katniss just as thoroughly as she protects me.

I cannot.

But Gale can.  Could.

For the smallest instant, I wonder if he might be a better choice for her after all, but no.  He does not trust her, and that must come first.

_What can I do to repair their friendship?_

Gale can look after Katniss in ways that are not possible for me: he speaks the language, knows the people, understands the way things are normally done.  In my ignorance, a threat may very likely slip through and strike, making my vows to Katniss and King Everdeen worthless.  The only thing I can call my own in this place is Katniss’ friendship.  I cannot lose that… but I will if I cannot be her equal.

What am I thinking?  I will _never_ be her equal.  How could I have believed otherwise, even for an instant?  I’m the bastard son of a slave woman.  Harald – my own father – had not deigned to ask me for my allegiance like he would of a free-born man in his kingdom.  I have never worn his seal, a reminder of an oath of fealty I’d never been allowed to formally make.  I am beneath his notice.

Katniss is not.  She had been born into this, grown up knowing she would one day lead.

And Gale.  I do not know his family’s rank in Samland, but he is respected.  Despite Katniss’ insistence that he is not suited to kingship, he has earned the right to it far more than I.

I open my mouth to tell Katniss she needs to rethink this.  How can she marry me?  How can I be of any possible use to her people if my own father cannot acknowledge our blood relation?

Tugging on her hand, so snugly fitted into mine, I draw her into a shadowy nook.  “Katniss—” I begin.

Her lips interrupt.  Just one kiss and all my good intentions are undone.  The soft, lush taste of her mouth brings forth a sigh of defeat from deep within me.  When I press closer, she retreats.  Her mouth trembles open and a puff of breath hits my hovering lips.  So sweet.  As sweet as her voice blending flawlessly in song.  I might have been able to let her go before that dawn, before I’d heard her sing, before my curiosity had been my undoing.  I’d awoken when the front door had thumped closed.  I’d pulled on my clothes when I’d seen the empty spot where the fishing basket was kept.  I’d followed her footprints knowing that Katniss wouldn’t go fishing before dawn on the morning of our departure to Trelleborg, knowing she had some other purpose in mind, _not_ knowing that my heart would beat only for her by the break of day.

It beats for her still.  Now.  Always.

Her hands capture my jaw.  Her fingers slide into my hair.  Her nails scratch softly against my scalp.

My hands curl around her waist.  My fingers quest up her back.  My nails drag up her leather vest until they encounter the edge of her collar.  The soft hairs and tender skin at the nape of her neck burn my fingertips.

I lose the rhythm of our kiss when her hips bow into mine.  Gods.  She cannot be this close to me.  My gentle affection twists and snarls into a battle-crazed berserker.  I kiss her back deeply, swiftly, and then I pull away.

She moves with me.  I scramble for her arms and force myself not to grip her elbows too tightly.

“No.  Please,” I beg.  This is too much, this delight.  It was not meant for a mere mortal.

“I’m sorry,” she mouths.  Oh, that mouth.  How lovely and luscious.

I tilt my forehead against hers and dare to pet her braided hair.  I sigh.  “No, I am sorry.”  I want her.  I need her.  I need to tell her— “I cannot protect you here.  Gale can.  Please.  Mend your friendship with him.”

She scowls.

“You protect me here,” I rush to explain, “but who looks after you?”

“You,” she insists to my endless frustration.  Seeing my jaw clench, she adds, “Haymitch, Prim…”

“Haymitch, who is a drunkard.  Primrose, who is a young lady, _not_ a warrior.”  I smooth my hands over her shoulders and down her arms.  “Katniss, they are not capable of protecting you and I cannot be that man for you yet.”

The fury building in her eyes ebbs with the utterance of my final word.  I’d included it only because I know how much she hates hearing me speak frankly of myself.  I have no desire to argue with her over my own qualities – lacking or not.  This is about what services I cannot perform for her that others can.  Should.  Must.

“Be friends again with Gale and the other warriors.  Please.  For me.”

Katniss releases a blustery breath.  “I will try, but…  He is—  They believe—”  She shakes her head, frustrated.

“He is worried about you.  All of them are,” I supply.  “Let them help you.”

“He wants to stop you.  Um, he wants you to go.  Away.  From me.”

Oh.  I steel myself and summon enough determination to take a half-step back.  “If that is the only way he will understand.”  When she shakes her head, I offer a compromise, “Leave me here at the fortress with Haymitch.  He will help me make improvements.  You go and help the others with the outer defenses.”

“How will you speak?”

“In etchings if needed.  It will be all right.  Go with Gale.”  They are some of the most difficult words I have ever had to say, but telling Katniss she would soon be free to leave Denmark and return to her family had been harder.  Asking her to stay despite her freedom and choose me for her husband had been nearly impossible to utter.  Despite that, I’m surprised that I find the strength to gently push her away now.  It is for her own safety.  I will do whatever I must to keep her safe.

“I will go with Gale,” she begins tightly – she is displeased but can see the wisdom of what I suggest – “but I will return every night to you.”

A shudder works its way through my frame, from scalp to toes and back again.  My eyes close in helpless reaction.  She seals her promise with a soft, lingering, chaste kiss.

I am divided.  I want her, yet she deserves more.  She deserves a husband who will be her equal, but she has already promised herself to me in order to protect her father and her people from Alma’s schemes.  She is giving them another option, one that necessarily includes me and a fictional alliance with Harald of Denmark.  That cannot be undone without consequences.  There can be only one solution, then: I must become that man as quickly as possible, just as I’d promised.  I must be wary of allowing my overconfidence to make oaths I cannot keep.  I must give her my best.  I must find a way to transform my best into something which is _good enough._   In the meantime…

“Thank you,” I whisper, cradling her face in my hands.  “I will be waiting for you here.  Always.”  I brush my lips against her forehead, surrendering to the truth: my love for her is a cage and I am well and truly caught.


	38. A Simple Dance

(Peeta)

 

Working with Haymitch is fully as wretched an experience as Katniss had predicted it would be.  The man has no patience for my broken speech, gestures, or drawings.  However, Prim comes to my rescue, recruiting several children with enough imagination to understand me.  Haymitch then gives the final approval for increasing the capacity of the granary and stables.

We get to work.

It’s been years since I’ve cut timber, but I eagerly join the group of men and horses heading out to the forest.  My tree is the first to fall and I get several appraising looks as I proceed to hack the branches off of the fallen oak.

It takes a bit more of an effort to explain the necessity of seasoning the wood before the granary can be constructed but, again with Prim’s assistance, they are convinced to turn their attention to building pens for the village’s animals.  I feel as if they are humoring me, but I cannot fault them for it.  Katniss had told me of their skills in riverworks and amber mining here.  My people have worked with wood for centuries and mastered it.  When I have the words to explain, I should take on an apprentice or two.  For now, I am merely an eccentric foreigner.

“You did much today,” Katniss congratulates me at the night-meal.  She’d washed up quickly upon her return, but I can see two small twigs stuck in her braid and I can still smell the dusty perfume of the forest mixed in with the faint musk of her sweat.  Her scent, her bright eyes, her soft lips… I am overwhelmed.

I have to consciously grip my knife and spoon and then draw in a steadying breath to calm my racing heart.  “Your sister came to my aid,” I softly deflect.  “She found some very kind helpers for me.”

“Ah,” Katniss sighs, smiling.  “Prim is very good – repairing trouble between people.”

She speaks as if she has no such talent herself.  “You underestimate the effect you have on others,” I argue.  Before she can do more than roll her eyes, I ask, “But why was she working in the kitchen out-of-doors today?”

“Um.”  Interestingly, this question makes Katniss’ dusky skin pinken.  Her teeth scrape over her bottom lip, trapping it.  I wonder what would happen if she were to give it free rein.  “It is the bell berry wine.  For the wedding feast.”

Those final two words hit me in the gut with such force that, for a long moment, I cannot breathe.  Katniss and I will have a wedding feast.  In the midst of all this uncertainty and obligation, I had somehow forgotten the approach of the event itself.  It had not seemed real.  Now it does.

“When—?” I ask roughly.  I try to force more words out, but my anticipation strangles them into nothing but a shallow breath.

“A fortnight,” she answers.  My entire body flushes with heat as her gaze slides in my direction.  Nearly concealed beneath her lowered lashes, a heat I have tasted – a taste that has seared me down to my spirit – glitters briefly.  She rolls her lower lip inward to receive brief attention from her agile tongue.

My breath catches up to me in a rush.

She clears her throat and glances away.  “Prim will make your tunic.”

“My tunic?”

“Wedding tunic,” she elaborates and then teaches me the words for that so I will understand her sister’s request when she makes it.  “I’m sorry.  I am not good at clothing making.”

I know.  “What can I do in return?  Is there some small gift your sister will accept?”

The smile Katniss gives me is beatific.  “Make something of wood?”

“Carve something?”

She nods.  “But not a cup.  Not a spoon.”

“Why not either of those?”

“A cup is from a man to his woman.  A spoon is from mother to daughter.”

Intrigued, I lean closer.  I forget about the rest of the people in the dining hall and press, “What are their meanings?”

Interestingly, Katniss responds to my request almost shyly.  “Ah… the cup carries good things between the man and woman.  Um.  Wine – hope.  Ale – happiness.  Herbs – protection.  Water – life.  Um, we – you and I – will drink these.  It is the wedding custom here.”

My hands twitch.  This is the first I have heard anything of how marriages are done in Katniss’ land.  With a start, I realize that I need to make her this cup.  I will ask Prim using my scribbles.  She will help me decide the size and ornamentation.  “And the spoon?  Given to a daughter by her mother?”

“Yes.  Um… it gives food to children.  Many children.  And the spoon is a… a wish.  There will always be food for children.  Strong children.”

Oh, gods.  Children.  My – _our_ – children from Katniss’ exceptionally beautiful form.  Her figure enhanced by our child within her belly.  I take care to set my knife and spoon down gently before clasping my knees beneath the surface of the table.  I cannot get enough breath in my lungs.

“Peeta?  You are all right?”

I nod, grit my teeth, and work on sucking air into my lungs.  “I’ve never wanted to marry you so badly,” I confide in a quick, quiet tone.

She looks away, staring blankly at her plate.  She swallows although she has not taken a bite.  I reach for her hand and gently slide mine beneath it.  Katniss claims she is not good at saying something, but her grip upon my hand is answer enough.

I expect that lying beside her will make slumber impossible tonight, but I’m already falling asleep as I press a kiss to her forehead and her hand closes around mine.

Our days fall into a pattern: unending toil and dedication to our tasks.  I only see her in the very early morning, turning my back as she dresses in her tunic, leather vest, leg wrappings, and boots, and then once again for the night-meal.  She takes her day-meal on-site with Gale and the others who are working to construct the watchtowers… or dugouts.  I still know nothing of their construction.

Although I don’t see Katniss often, I think of her every time I glance in the direction of the outdoor kitchen.  They have finished brewing the wine and now I count several barrels set in a shadowy section of the timber wall of the fortress.

I count each day as it passes.

One evening, Primrose takes Katniss and me to her father’s meeting room where I meet Gale’s younger brother, Rory.  He blushes as Katniss explains that he and Prim will show us the dance we will perform at our wedding.

My gaze drops to my left leg and my hand twitches.  I resist the urge to massage the mangled muscles and tangle of scars.  “I hope it is slow.”  The words slip out before I can think to stop them.

When I look up, Katniss’ eyes are there, watching me.  I think she remembers that moment during last year’s harvest: I’d told her I couldn’t dance. 

She says, “Slow is good.  Slow… fast… it is our choice.”

I don’t think she is speaking only of dancing.  My pulse flutters in my wrists and fingertips.  My heartbeat pounds in my chest and throat.  In eight days, Katniss and I will be married.

The dance is simple, which I like, and it requires that I stay in constant contact with Katniss, which I like even more.  I press my lifted palm to Katniss’ and place my other hand on her waist.  It’s clear that I’m supposed to be guiding her through the steps, but I mostly follow Katniss’ cues.  She’s a natural leader.

“What?” she demands when I can’t contain my snicker of amusement.

“Oh.  I was just thinking how good you are at leading.”

Her chin drops.  “No, I’m not.”

“Hey,” I whisper, interrupting our choreographed movements to tuck a knuckle under her chin and lift her gaze back up to mine.  “You are.  You were born to do this.”

Her lips quirk.  “Lead… you?  In a dance?”

I laugh.  “Yes.  That’s what I meant.  Of course.”

We smile stupidly at each other.  I like the idea too much to bury it beneath my initial thought: she is an amazing leader of her country.  She won’t believe me and I have no desire to remind her of the burden she must shoulder every day.  A burden I need to learn how to halve for her.

Our dance instructor clears her throat.

Katniss rolls her eyes.  I bite back an even wider smile.

Prim battles her own indulgent grin as she leads us through the next series of steps.  I can only imagine how ridiculous Katniss and I look, constantly getting distracted by something as simple as eye contact.  But, as the lesson goes on and on, poor Rory looks like he’s about to burst from a peculiar blend of enthusiasm and mortification.  I struggle not chuckle at his bright red face.  His discomfort distracts me from my own tension whenever Katniss unintentionally brushes against me or I catch the scent of her hair on a puff of breeze, and for that small service I’m thankful.

I sometimes have to lean on Katniss to keep myself balanced, like when I must spin around before circling behind her.  Katniss holds me steady as she steps to the side, tucks herself under my arm, and turns in my grasp.  Then it is Katniss prowling around me, keeping our palms – my right and her left – in contact all the while.

As we learn the dance, our hands part for only brief moments before coming together again, open and flush.  Intimate and equal.

When Prim finally releases us for the night with a nod of approval, I have to force myself to drop my arm from Katniss’ waist and slide my palm free of hers.  I laugh when Katniss darts forward and pokes Rory teasingly on his still-warm cheek.  I thank a giggling Prim for her instruction.

Katniss does not object to the distance I keep between us as we return to her bed chamber and prepare to sleep.  Despite keeping my back to her, she feels so close, too close – Am I truly sensing her measured breaths from across the room? – and I’m certain that with one look I will fall into her.

I want that.  Very much.

_Eight more days…_

I clear my throat as I contemplate the swaying flame of the oil lamp while she undresses.  “Do you remember the first time our hands touched, palm to palm?”

She is quiet for a long moment as she thinks back.  “At your brother’s hearth?  You said – we are friends.”

I smile.  Yes, that had been the first.  I’d offered her my hand before that, of course.  The first time at Trelleborg, she hadn’t taken it; she’d bound me with rope instead.  The second time – the very next morning – she’d pierced my skin with her nails as the collar had been locked around her neck.  The third time, we had shared a friendly clasp outside of my brother’s house.  Our palms had not touched then.

They touch now.  Every time we reach out, our hands are open.  We are open… to each other.

I like that best of all.

“Peeta…?” she whispers as I move to pinch the flame on the lamp wick.

“Hm?”

“I enjoyed our dance.”

I give in: I turn and drink in the sight of her.  “As did I.”  It had been our first dance, the first of many, I hope.

I extinguish the light, ending the day with our shared smiles.  Perhaps they will last until morning and be the first thing we both see when we open our eyes.

Unlike previous mornings when Katniss pets my beard until I wake and then I release her from my arms, the dawn of this new day is different.  I am different.  I hold her closer and nuzzle her throat until she groans softly.  My hands drop to cradle either side of her strong hips, and I squirm under her until our bodies fit together with stunning warmth.

“Peeta,” she murmurs, but it is not a request for me to let her go.

I kiss her ear.  I nibble her jaw.  My lips tingle in anticipation of hers.

Her hands pet my chest.

“Seven more days,” I observe, brushing the words against her warm lips.

“Hm…”

Her throaty agreement stirs me.  My arms flex as I shift her a bit more until we are pressed together – chest, belly, and lower.

Katniss presses her forehead against my shoulder.  “Um.  Peeta,” she says again, and this time it sounds like a warning.

I drop my hands back to the bedding but she doesn’t pull away.  When she burrows into me, pressing her nose to the side of my neck, I wrap my arms around her shoulders and trace her messy braid with my fingertips.  Strands of her dark hair catch on my calluses.  I focus on that in an effort to allow myself to calm down; Katniss can feel me pressed mindlessly against the cradle of her hips.  I relax in increments with each passing moment that she does not appear to mind.

“Yes, Katniss?”

“Um.  We cannot.  Um.”  She blows out a frustrated breath.  “Words.  I do not know the words.”  She sits up and I suck in a breath as she irreverently straddles my lap.  Her shift creeps up past her knees.  Gods.

She draws my gaze up to hers with a touch upon my chin.  “This,” she says in a breathless voice, glancing down at my tautly-pulled trouser front.  “We cannot.  Children will… um.  I will be ill and slow and I cannot.  Not now.  Now I must be strong.”

I reach for her hands and massage her fingers.  “I understand.”  There are still too many uncertainties to risk _that._   “We should wait until it is safe.  However long that takes.”  I would never forgive myself if I were to endanger Katniss or our child.  “We will plan carefully.  Ah, do you want many children?”

“I do not know.  I must protect my father and Prim and…  I do not know.”

Pulling myself up, I press my forehead against hers.  I wrap my arms around her waist and hold her close.  “You have so many duties.  I understand, Katniss.  Children will be your choice.”

“But… what do you want?”

“You.  Just you.  Safe.  Happy.”

She closes her eyes and I drop my gaze to her smile.

She confides, “I am safe and happy.  You are here.”

I cannot reconcile this warm, loving creature with the woman who snipes and snarls at Gale and Haymitch, who attacks her enemies with a fierce scowl and merciless brutality, but I have seen this Katniss before.  She is gentle with her father and sister… and me.

I brush the escaped strands of hair away from her brow and temples.  “I am here.  We are family.”  I don’t mean for it to be a question, but somehow it is.

Katniss answers.  “We are family.”

Her arms loop around my shoulders and I sigh into the glow of morning seeping in through the cracks of the shutter.  Her closeness does nothing to slow my racing heart or relax my hardened flesh, but she soothes my spirit and strengthens my resolve.

We are family.


	39. Building Up

(Peeta)

 

Katniss proves our connection again and again, never shying from my touch at the night-meal and reaching out for me whenever she pleases.  And it pleases me that it pleases her to just that.   _Often._

It does not please Gale.

He scowls at us nightly over his platter, but whatever he has to say is kept behind his teeth when I am present.  Perhaps it is these unsaid accusations that goad and needle me for I only hear the worst that my mind can conjure: I should be the one Katniss relies upon for her safety – I am failing her.

I do what I can to fight the constant drag of uncertainty: I focus on my tasks within the fortress.

The weather is mercifully dry but the timber we had felled is still not as seasoned as I would like by the time all the new livestock pens are completed and the granary foundation is dug.  Still, a substandard granary is better than none at all.

The oak supports are raised in a day.  The design causes many people to pause and frown, including Haymitch, but there is a sharpness in his eyes that I recognize: he sees the benefits of the way the oak beams are angled against the ground.  When he looks at me, I see a glimmer of trust.  Yes, I am sharing what I know for the benefit of the people here.  He nods once in recognition.  I reply in kind.

He meanders away, leaving me alone in the midst of the activity in the enclosed yard of the fortress: builders and stable workers, cooks and soldiers focused on the business of the day.  For a moment, I allow myself to drift.

The sounds of life are different here.  They are a cacophony of voices I do not recognize, speaking words I do not understand.  They are footsteps taken in leather boots which are very different from the ones I wear.  Every knock and bump and thud against the wooden floors and walls of the fortress are like foreign utterances: the buildings and trees here do not even communicate comprehensibly.

Back home, I’d known the purpose of every cutting of timber by the scent and feel and sound of it when struck firmly.  I could sense which pieces would make the best bowls and spoons, which were destined to become knife and ax handles, spear shafts and shields.  It is a common skill amongst my people, but here, suddenly, I doubt myself.

There is so much to doubt.

Had I really accepted the mantle of kingship on my first night within these walls?  The memory is clear even if it seems more like a moment out of a dream, but I suppose I really had done that.  If it means I can give Katniss what she needs, I would do anything.

“Peeta.”

At the sound of my name, I open my eyes and offer an apologetic smile to Prim: the sounds of daily life and gossip in the fortress had momentarily mesmerized me.

“Come,” she says, gesturing me over to a bench beside the keep.  I think King Everdeen’s rooms may very well be on the opposite side of the timbers.  I know the local words for those things:

_Meeting room._

_Bed chamber._

And a few others besides:

_Dumpling._

_Sister._

Yes, I know these words in the language here, but I do not know how to ask if the king is any better today.  It is beyond frustrating.  I am little more than a tree myself, existing in silence, affected by all that goes on around me but taking no action myself.

How had Katniss endured this in my country without going mad?

Prim asks me a question about Katniss.  I know it is a question from the rising tone of her voice and her expectant look.  I recognize Katniss’ name amongst the syllables, but I have no idea what Prim had just said.  Since Katniss is not here at the moment, perhaps Prim is asking where she is?

“Um, Katniss…”  How do I tell her that her sister is somewhere out in the woods working with Gale, Mason, and Mitchell?  Even contemplating which gestures to use for that makes my face flush with exasperation.  And I’m not even completely sure that’s what Prim wishes to know.

I wish Katniss were here.  Everything is better when she’s near.  I don’t worry so much.  I forget that I am an outsider.  We laugh.

My silence imprisons me.

Prim speaks again.  I think she offers a reassurance.  The sense of expectation evaporates between us.  She shifts on her seat and faces me fully in a friendly gesture.  As I do not know when Katniss will be back and work on the granary is done for the day, I do not decline the invitation although I have no real hope that I’ll be able to converse meaningfully with her younger sister.

We sit in silence for a long moment.  The late afternoon sunlight feels nice on my face and neck.

“Sunshine,” she says, gesturing to the side of my face before patting her own and pointing up into the sky.  “Sunshine.”

I dutifully repeat the word.

“Warm,” she continues.  “Sunshine is warm.”

She has taught me “shade is cool”, “fire is hot”, and “Katniss is beautiful” by the time the object of our lesson saunters over.  She is dressed as if just returning from a hunt in the woods, wearing a man’s tunic, leather belt, warm leg wrappings, leather vest, and study boots.  Her hair is nearly falling out of its braid and the dusty, damp smell of the forest clings to her.

“Katniss is beautiful,” I blurt in her language.

She blinks at me, her feet rooted to the ground, and for one awful moment, I fear Primrose might have been teaching me something unflattering… and that I’d just shared it with any-and-everyone milling about in the eventide.

“Er…” I switch to my native language to confirm.  “I did just tell you that you are beautiful, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” she confirms.  Her expression is baffled and wondering.  “Why do you say that?”

“Because it is true.”  Surely she knows how lovely she is?  Surely.

But it occurs to me that there are many things I would like to say to her that Katniss might not think to teach me.  So, over the next two days, as the granary is assembled, I take advantage of Prim’s patience every time our paths cross, soaking up as many new words as I can, thrilling at the pleasantly startled smile on Katniss’ face each evening when I show off my new language skills for her.  Just for her.

But language will not be enough.  So, after I see Katniss off at dawn with a single soft kiss and the promise of another upon her safe return, I sequester myself at the practice field until the day-meal, acquainting myself with Samland’s spears.  The weight of the wood and the balance of the weapon itself are both different from what I’d known in Denmark.

As I relearn how to aim and throw them, my determination to share my knowledge of woodworking is renewed.  And my memory of the wedding customs here is revived.  I have duties to tend to there, as well.

That evening, after I’ve shared a warm and welcoming smile with Katniss across the yard upon her return and, while she is bathing, I loiter in the corridor leading to the dining hall.  I do not have to wait long for my quarry to appear.

“Prim,” I greet her.  “Good day.”

She gives me a bright smile.  Any one of Prim’s smiles can defeat the memory of a dozen distrustful looks and I’ve received that many and more today.  My spirits lift a little.  It is enough to tide me over until I can hold Katniss close again.

“Good _evening,”_ she corrects kindly.

Ah, yes.  “Good evening.  Um.  Would you please… um… discussion?” I fumble.

“Of course, Peeta.  What would you like to discuss?”

I grasp the meaning from her eager tone rather than her words, which are still a jumble to my ears.  I gesture toward the nearest exit and she precedes me.

“I will make your tunic soon,” she offers.  I catch only the word “tunic.”  Seeing my expression, she gestures to my shoulders and arms.  “I will need to measure you for it.  You are… larger than most men here.”

I think I might know what she is saying, so I nod.  “I thank you.  The wedding tunic.  I thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure, Peeta.  Now, what did you want to talk about?”

Her expectant look prompts me to articulate my request.  “Um.  The wedding cup,” I begin, molding the vessel in the air with my hands.  “I… I build—no.  I do.  Um.”  I push down my frustration at my lack of words.  My admiration for Katniss bounds forward yet again: how does she manage to stay so calm at times like these when she cannot find her own voice?

“You will make the cup?” Prim confirms with a helpful gesture and a bright grin before she waits for me to go on.

I let my irritation dissolve.  “Yes.  Would you…?”  I scramble for a stick and smooth patch of dirt.  “Large?  Small?” I ask, sketching quickly.

Prim catches my meaning when she sees the rough drawings in the dirt.  “Oh, yes.  Both are fine designs.”  She smiles encouragingly.

I huff out a breath in aggravation.  Too little guidance is disorienting.  “Please,” I request, offering her the stick and gesturing to the ground.

“There really are no standards when it comes to the wedding cup,” she says with a shake of her head.  I frown as I try to pick out sounds that could be words I’ve learned.  She idly draws a pattern on one of the sketches but leaves the other plain.  Waving the stick between them, she shrugs.  “It is your wedding.  You and Katniss.”

I blink.  Of course.  What she is saying makes perfect sense: this is not only _my_ wedding, so why not include Katniss in the process?  I grin.  “Thank you, Prim.”

“My pleasure, Peeta.”

I turn back to the etchings in the dirt as she returns to the hall.  Although my eyes are downcast, my mind is elsewhere.  I’m trying to recall if I’ve seen any blocks of scrap wood that might make a suitable cup.

“You are thinking.  I can hear,” Katniss teases me that night, pressing her ear to the center of my chest and listening intently to my heartbeat through the fabric of my shift.

“What do you hear?” I tease back, rubbing my palm down and back up her spine.  I adore her curves, even those formed from unyielding bone.

“Hm.  Trouble,” she predicts, her tone mockingly dark.

I chuckle.  “Well, the granary is nearly finished,” I acknowledge.  “After that, what will I do with myself?”

“Trouble,” she asserts again.  This time she sounds resigned.

I laugh.  “I promise I will save all of my trouble-making for you.”  I seal this vow with a kiss upon her brow.

She grunts softly and curls her fingers into my shift.  “You will share?”

“With you, I will share my all, Katniss.”

In a few short days, that oath will manifest in a public declaration.  I am tormented by the wait, and I am terrified by the promise.  I try not to let Katniss see it, but she knows me well.

The following morning, I’m given a thoughtful frown as she slides her hunting knife and ax into her belt.  “Are you well?”

“Yes.  Fine.”  I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit up.  The soft glow seeping in through the shutters warns of an overcast day.  I don’t know why that makes me uneasy.  “You should take your bow today,” I hear myself say.

Katniss blinks.  “We make noise,” she reminds me.  I know firsthand how disruptive the sounds of construction can be.  “No animals will be near.”

I want to argue with her, but from the tilt of her chin, I know I will not persuade her.  I feel oddly defeated.

I look up from contemplating my empty hands when Katniss places a hand on my shoulder and carefully seats herself on my knee.  She offers me a smile, leans in for a kiss, wordlessly combs through my hair.  Pets my jaw.  Looks into my eyes.  When she slides away and stands, I still haven’t unknotted my tongue.

And then she is gone.

I feel like a fool.  What troubles me?  Some wayward thrum of inexplicable anxiety that a woman like Katniss would have laughed off as nerves due to our upcoming marriage?  I _am_ nervous about that, true.  But this feels… different.

It’s not until I’ve thrown and fetched my chosen spear two dozen times and returned to the fortress for the day-meal, that I manage to pull my attention away from my own circular thoughts.  I spy Haymitch vaulting up the steps leading to the lookout over the gate.  With a frown – Haymitch never rushes anywhere – I turn and scan the horizon, searching for some catalyst to his haste.  Due to the subtle valleys and swells of the land, I can just make it out in the distance, in the direction of the shoreline where the new watchtowers are being built: the white smoke of a signal fire.

A ship has been sighted.


	40. The Signal Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Gore and violence

(Katniss)

 

Gale and I have an unspoken agreement: I do not speak of Peeta and he does not ask.  He is not ready to understand; I refuse to waste my breath.

I am beginning to see why my father had never agreed to a betrothal between Gale and me.

But I also understand why Peeta wants me to befriend him.  The very thing which makes Gale so stubborn also makes him loyal.  Fiercely loyal.

I lean back against the tree trunk and tilt my head up toward the budding canopy.  I think I’m beginning to understand why Peeta had called me fiercely good.

“Ready to do this?” Mitchell asks, gesturing up one of the few remaining trees which stand between the elevated platform we’d built and the mouth of the river.

“Boost me up.”

With his aid, I swing up onto the lowest bough, which is still too high for me to reach on my own, and then begin to climb.  The handle of the ax in my belt knocks against the tree bark as I move.  I place my hands and feet in counterpoint to the final touches being added to the third and final watchtower along the river.

Although… it sounds strange to call them “watchtowers” concealed as they are among the forest canopy.  Perhaps “look-out posts” would be a better term.  Each will be manned by three volunteers for a period of two days and each post will be provided with a nearby pile of timber which can be lit from the flame of the oil lamp they will keep with them.  In the warm months, green brush will give off white smoke that should be clearly visible from the gate or keep.  In the cold months, oil will be added and the resulting black smoke will be a stain against the overcast sky.  I am confident this will be a successful system.

Bracing my feet and looping the length of rope I’d brought with me around the trunk of the tree and myself, I begin the task of thinning out the branches.  Not completely, of course, but enough so that those on the look-out platform can see the shore.  It would be faster to simply cut down the tree, but no.  That would only reveal the very thing we are trying to hide.

The sound of a second ax joins mine: in the neighboring tree, Mitchell has begun to remove the obstructing foliage.

“He seems kind,” my ally offers in a quiet, but genuine tone that no one else will hear.  “Your Northman, I mean.”

“He is,” I admit tensely, leery of being led into saying something I shouldn’t.  I’m waiting for some kind of trap to be sprung.  “But he is also brave.”  I glance at Mitchell and daringly suggest, “You would like him, I think.”

“Not more than you do,” he teases.

I don’t let my sudden laugh escape, but I smile.

“Are there many Northmen like him?”

There is no one like Peeta, but I say, “Yes.  From what I have seen, they are merciless to their enemies, but very good to their friends.”

“I admire what you’re trying to do, Katniss.”

Startled by the solemn admission, I meet Mitchell’s gaze.  “But?”

He shrugs.  “But nothing, I suppose.  All truths will be told in time.”

I shake my head wonderingly.  “You’ve gotten wiser while I was away.”

“So have you.  You’re different now.”  He squints at me.  “Quieter.  More determined.”

It is because of Peeta.  I know this completely although I do not say it aloud.  Peeta has a quiet strength: the sort of inner certainty which guides him to do what is right no matter the obstacles in his path.  Peeta always finds a way and stays true to the course he sets no matter how long it takes to see it through.

“Do you share your father’s opinion of him?” I query.

“Of who?  Peeta?”

I nod.

He sighs.  “I want peace, too, Katniss.  The fighting last spring was… very bad.”  His jaw muscles clench.  “I may be a fair-skillful fighter, but I don’t much care for the results.”

“I know.  None of us do.”  Not even Gale despite his eagerness to dispatch Northmen.  But it would be foolish to wish that no longboat ever reaches our shores, so I banish the thought.  Our enemies will come.  It is inevitable.

And what will Peeta and I do when we are faced with Harald’s men?  Are they on their way here even now?  Is Már, who knows of my homeland, guiding their quest?  Or Finnr?  Perhaps Káto?  Or does Peeta’s brother believe that he and I had run off into the woods together?  No, surely not.  For one, Peeta loves his brother’s family.  And also, I have never been blessed with much luck.

They will come, and either we will craft the alliance that I’d promised my people, or we will all fight to the death.  _I_ will fight to the death.  To keep Peeta.  If he wishes to stay.

The scene, as yet unreal, descends upon me like a dark shadow: a standoff in the smoldering ruins of the village… Káto demanding that his brother return to Denmark with him… Peeta agreeing in order to save lives.  Could I let him go?  As a ruler, it would be my duty to do what is best for my countrymen, but everything in me rebels at the thought of watching him walk away.

No.  I would not be able to let him go.  Country be damned.  _Death first._

I lean forward until my forehead knocks against the rough bark of the tree and I let out a sigh.  I should not think these things.  Thinking of them will not prepare me for the confrontation ahead.  I cannot anticipate Káto’s appearance or his demands.  There is no point in exhausting myself wondering.

Straightening again, I heft my hand ax and turn my attention to the bough which needs to come down.

I pause.  Something out of the corner of my eye – some dark shape upon the waves – tickles my sight.  I blink and then peer into the distance.  A sail.  A keel.  A ship.

“Mitchell!” I call.  “Alert the others and light the signal fire.”

He follows my gaze and visibly startles.  Swearing and cursing, he unties himself from the tree he is pruning and hurriedly swings his way down to the forest floor.  As his quick footsteps recede, I slide my ax into my belt and begin unknotting the rope from around my waist, but I make no move to descend from the tree.  Of all of us out here this morning, I am the one most likely to recognize our visitors.

I keep watch as Mitchell, Gale, and Mason order the other volunteers back to the fortress to help prepare for these newcomers.  The commotion fades and I listen to the sound of someone – perhaps Mason – striking the flint to light the fire.

I hear the rustle of greenery being hauled from the base of already-trimmed trees…

The faint smell of woodsmoke as the wind shifts restlessly…

The relentless approach of the vessel from the sea…

I do not recognize the sail.  Not that I had seen a great many of Harald’s ships moored in the bay at Trelleborg, so the strange sail means nothing.  I must wait until the men set foot on the shore and begin their approach so that I can see their faces and—

“Katniss!  Come on!”

I don’t look away.  “No!” I hiss, gesturing for Gale to keep his voice down.  “I need a better look at them.”

“Look from the top of the gate!”

No.  I refuse the order because Gale certainly won’t be going back to the fortress.  He won’t let himself be hobbled by those timber walls.  There is only so much a warrior-behind-the-wall can do before the enemy sets the gate on fire and smashes through it.  With all of our forces tucked within our imperfect defenses, our fate will be sealed.

“I’m staying,” I insist.  I have no shield, no bow, no arrows, but I have a knife and an ax.  That will have to be enough.

There’s a grunt from below and a subtle vibration runs through the tree.  I feel it through my palms and I grit my teeth in aggravation: Gale has just leaped up and grabbed the lowest branch.  He is climbing up after me.

Stupid, stubborn, single-minded—!

“Don’t make me knock you out of this tree and haul you back to your father,” he growls.

I consider kicking him in the face.  He’s not quite near enough yet, though.  “I am not needed there.”

He curses at me.

“Gale,” I interject.  “Stop.  Peeta will speak to them.  If they are friends, we will not need more weapons.”

“And if they are not?”

“Peeta will delay them.  He will give us the time we need to move into position and attack from behind.”

“Attack with what?  There are four of us.”

“Are you being stupid on purpose?  Do you really think Chaff, Thresh, and Boggs will stay inside the fortress with us out here?”

He subsides, but I can feel his glower and hear his fists clench.  I don’t have time to repair his ego; the enemy is pulling into the shallows, lowering their anchor, vaulting over the low sides of the boat and splashing onto the rocky beach.

I search each face, but I do not recognize any of them.  I am relieved – Káto has not come to claim his brother – but I should not be relieved.  This is a raiding party.  They are prepared to hurt and kill whomever they encounter.  Still, I am thankful that this will be a straightforward fight.

“Well?” Gale whispers.  “Are they _friends?”_

I strain to hear their words.  The language sounds familiar although I cannot catch their meaning.  Their tunics and trousers are those worn by Northmen, but do I really think they are our friends?  “No.”

I glance down in time to see Gale smile.  “Good.”

We count their numbers as they head into the woods, marking their leader by the gestures he uses to divide the men.  Two stay behind with the ship.  A small group of four follows the shoreline toward the riverbank, perhaps hoping to come upon farmsteads with valuables.  The remaining twenty others head into the forest, passing directly beneath the tree in which Gale and I are perched.  Looking back over my shoulder, I see Mason and Mitchell holding similar positions a stone’s throw away.

A Northman curses when they locate the signal fire and a short debate is held.  I think I hear the word for “fortress” but is sounds oddly distorted, reinforcing my suspicion that these men are not from Trelleborg.  Perhaps not even from Denmark.

That is when I remember the attack on Harald’s fort on my first night ashore.  Those men had been Northmen, too, but enemies of the king.  Could these men be from the same land?  Does it matter if they are?  No.  If they prove that their intentions are hostile, they will be dealt with accordingly.  No mercy.

We wait until the sounds of their booted feet have faded and then we follow.  Moving from tree to tree, Mason, Mitchell, Gale, and I track them through the forest.  I am idly wondering if there might be any shields left behind in the cottages in the village, any weapons, too, when Gale puts out a hand for us to halt.

The tree line is ahead.  Our visitors have paused to take in the lay of the land and formulate their attack strategy.  I burn to see past them, to confirm that the village has been emptied, the fortress gates closed, and our defense rallied.  I bite the inside of my cheek.  My fingers dig into the bark of the tree behind which I am stationed.  I want to climb up and take a look, but one wrong move and I’ll alert the Northmen to our presence.  I cannot risk our lives just to assuage my anxiety.  Besides, there is naught I could do about it now if our signal hadn’t been heeded.

Our adversaries pause and there is a bit more quiet discussion before three men break off from the main group and make their way toward the river, presumably to meet up with their four companions.  And then the Northmen at the edge of the forest settle down to wait.  The longer their rest becomes, the more certain I am that the signal had been seen by those in the fortress.  The Northmen have lost the element of surprise and have devised another strategy.  Something tells me that this group is not the one we ought to be worried about.

At eventide, they stand and move boldly out into the open.  None of us move to follow them.  I wait until they are approaching the village border before I dare to creep to the edge of the woods in order to confirm my suspicions.  Yes, the homes and yards have been emptied.  Everyone is in the fort.  The gate is locked.  From this distance, I can easily see Peeta’s golden hair as he stands on the walkway atop the main wall.

I wish I were next to him, but my place is here.

A soft birdcall echoes through the forest.  As one, the four of us turn.

I smile.  “Thresh.”

He nods.  Behind him, Chaff and Boggs reveal themselves and the arsenal of weapons they’ve brought from the fortress.  Spears are passed around.  No one bothers with a shield; we have to move quickly and nimbly.  That will be our greatest advantage against the Northmen.

Boggs reports, “There are seven of them approaching from the riverside.”

“Four from the shore and three from the main group,” I summarize.

“We’ll deal with those first,” Gale says and, as we all share the same thought, no one disagrees.

Thresh then swings a bow and quiver of arrows from his shoulder and holds them out to me.  I accept them and the familiar weight makes me pause.  This is not just any bow, nor are these just any arrows.  They are _mine_ – from my bed chamber, not the archery shed.

“What—?”

Thresh gives me a crooked grin.  “Your Northman was very insistent that I deliver these to you.”

“Of course he was,” I whisper through a stretchy smile.  I sling the quiver over my shoulder and test the bowstring.  I’m ready.

I look up just as Gale looks away, his throat constricting visibly.

“Let’s move,” Mason murmurs and we begin our silent trek to intercept the smaller, hidden group of Northmen.  Their strategy is clear now: the larger group will ransack the village just out of arrow-range, or perhaps even raise their shields and challenge the gate, while the smaller group attempts to start fires along the walls.  As we track them through the outskirts of the village, drawing nearer and nearer, my ears perk up at the sound of Peeta’s voice.

“… a shame that we are not friends, man from Norway,” I hear him muse with good humor.  “For I hear that we could be cousins—”

Boggs gestures for me to go ahead of him.  I focus on slinking through the deepening shadows, moving from paddock fence to cottage wall in a silent crouch.

The seven Northmen tasked with assaulting the fortress are easy to locate.  They have chosen a lightly-guarded section along the fortress wall.  With everyone’s attention on Peeta and our brash visitors, no one has noticed their approach.

Except for us.

Seven against seven… these are good odds.  Especially with the ten arrows just a short reach of my arm away, awaiting flight.  But I do not have an arrow for every man among our enemies, which means the seven of us will have to fight hand-to-hand at some point.

So that is how we begin.

As soon as our quarry has spread along the wall, the seven of us move in.  I inch forward.  Beside me, Thresh takes a silent step.  Although I cannot see them, I know the others, further down, are creeping through the village until we are within range.

When the sound of flint being struck bounces back to us, we can delay no longer.

We charge forward in silence.

The man I’ve chosen to kill senses something – or someone – behind him.  He turns.  I duck beneath his swinging arm.  My knife slides into his gut in a single motion.  Smooth.  Sharp.  Final.  Blood spurts over my hand.  Its heat stings my wind-chapped skin.  I take no care in withdrawing the knife.  The damage is done.  Next, I must stop his shout of warning.

I do.

His neck opens.  Blood on my face, in my eyelashes.  The scent is overpowering.

I drop to the ground with him, rolling away to gain my bearings.

A shout.

Mitchell had not moved as quickly as I.  His prey bleats.  The sound pierces the sunset-softened world.

Silence.

I count the blood-covered men still standing.  All of us have made it through the initial bloodbath.

However…

A battle cry.

It begins with one voice.  It swells with more.  The ringing of axes striking iron-studded shields.

I dive for the cover of the village and scramble up onto a thatched roof.  My knife blade leaves swipes of blood on my leggings before I tuck it into my belt.  My bow, in hand.  An arrow nocked.  I sight as footsteps pound in the hard-packed dirt.

The battle is coming to us.


	41. Bloodbath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: More gore and violence. And graphic unpleasantness.

(Peeta)

 

White smoke.

Haymitch’s shout.

The frantic efforts to haul resisting animals into the fortress.  A goose that I’d tucked under my arm in an effort to aid a young girl soils my travel-worn tunic.  The rope I’d grasped to pull a stubborn goat along the road chafes my hand.

The sight of Thresh and Boggs gathering spears.  Chaff conversing with Haymitch.

But no Katniss.

Katniss is not here.  Katniss is _out there._

Katniss, with an ax in her belt and a hunting knife and _nothing else._

Katniss.  She is too small for hand-to-hand combat.

“Wait!” I shout to Thresh, holding up my hands.  “Wait here!”  He doesn’t understand me.  Of course not.  I am not speaking his language.  I use what Samish words I can to delay him.  “Please.  Katniss,” I say motioning for him to stay put.  He plants his feet squarely and crosses his arms.  I have his attention.  He is waiting.  I struggle through an ungainly sprint into the keep.  I barrel down the hall, crash into Katniss’ bed chamber.

Bow.  Arrows.  Yes.  I have them.

I am breathless when I finish my frantic stumble over to the armory.  I shove them into Thresh’s hands.  “Would you—Katniss.  These—to Katniss.  Please!”  It is a fact that I know more Samish words, but they have all deserted me.

Thresh nods and lifts the weapons up for emphasis.  He speaks solemnly, his dark eyes steady, absorbing my panic.  I hope he is promising to find Katniss, to protect her, but I do not know for certain.

I do not know anything for certain.  She could be dead already.  Injured.  Captured.

If she has been taken I will become Jörmungandr – the Midgard Serpent itself – and churn the very earth and seas together until she is released to me.

Thresh reaches out.  Squeezes my shoulder.  If I move – even to return the gesture – I will shatter.

I watch as he runs for the gate.  It is closing.

Closing.

Closed.

The trio of wooden bars falls: _thud... thud... THUD!_

It is locked.

Katniss is locked out.

She is out there.

My every breath feels like a sob.  There is goose shit on my tunic.  My leg is aching as if caught in a vise.

The smell of fermented man.  A heavy hand on my shoulder.  Haymitch.  He barks at me.  I only recognize one word: _dumpling._

There is nothing I can do for her.

I stare at the gate.  She is _out there._

“Peeta.”

Prim steps between me and the barrier that separates me from Katniss.  She hooks her arm through mine and steers me around.  Rory takes my other side.  I let them lead me into the keep.  Haymitch is already waiting in the king’s meeting room.  Rory pulls the soiled tunic off of me.  Primrose appears with the one she and Katniss had sewn cuffs to.  Haymitch’s fancy belt.  The white-fur collared mantle.  Katniss’ hands had killed, skinned, tanned, and sewn these furs.  Their soft touch upon my jaw is a poor substitute for her fingers.

“Peeta,” Prim says again, gaining my attention momentarily.  “Katniss needs you.”

I nod.  They lead me to the gate.  Up the steps.  The village sprawls below.  The woods beyond.  The signal fire still burns.

It will be dark soon.

I need a spear.  This once, Haymitch heeds my gestures.  Two are delivered to me.  I test their weight and balance.  I can throw these.

Where is Katniss?

I see the strangers before I see her.  From their clothing and armor and braided hair, I know who they are: Northmen.

Haymitch shoves my shoulder, gesturing for me to make some sort of overture to the visitors.  I give him a droll look.  These are no friends of mine.  What does he expect from me?

“Katniss,” he hisses, sweeping his arm out to encompass the wilderness beyond, “needs you.  Speak.”

Oh.  Oh, I see.  Yes.  I should distract them.

They move as one unit as they approach boldly with axes in hand and shields held at their sides.  They show no fear.  And why should they?  The village has been abandoned.  Whatever good things they find are theirs for the taking.

They must not find Katniss.

I call out a greeting, startling them.  “Good eventide.  Just come from a long voyage?”

“The longest,” one man shouts back, intrigued by my presence here among the people of Samland.

“Are you seeking fortune or friendship?” I inquire, trying to squeeze a smile into my tone.

“Whatever the fates decree.”  This remark he accompanies with a mockery of a bow.

I laugh as if I am amused rather than nauseous.  “Do the fates decree you to be a friend of Swyen or of Harald?”

“Swyen of Norway!”

“I am sorry to hear that,” I acknowledge.  “It is a shame that we are not friends, man from Norway, for I hear that we could be cousins.  Your king and mine are brothers.  Or so they say.”

“So they say,” he agrees.  “And neither are here.  We might strike a bargain in their absence.”

Northmen do not bargain, not unless they have the upper hand.  This is a delay tactic.  My mind suddenly clears and I count the oarsmen.  Eight are easily missing.  Perhaps more.  I nudge Haymitch and gesture to the men standing before us, just far enough away to have a good chance of surviving a barrage of arrows, and count them on my fingers.  Then I keep counting.  I give him a pointed look.

He nods and turns to speak to the guards.

“If we are friends,” I continue slowly, as if I am actually considering the proposal, “what manner of assistance would you require?”

“Oh… a bit of gold and silver.  You could send it out with some of your women.  Pretty ones.”

Even from here, I can see the leer that twists his face.

“It may take some time to select these women from so many gracious volunteers.  I doubt all of them will fit in your ship.”

He laughs.  His oarsmen join in with hearty chuckles and offer a salute to my wit, raising their sharp, iron axes.

I draw a breath for the next gambit.

A choked scream of warning: a battle cry hacked off by a blade.

Silence.

And then… chaos.

The Northmen charge through the village, taking cover behind the small, stone houses and thatched roofs.  Haymitch screams at the archers.  Arrows are loosened.  None of them strike their targets.  The Northmen’s blood curdling cries blast through the shallow valley as they stampede through the narrow lanes, moving left instead of forward, to meet the Samish force beyond the fortress wall.

_Out there._

Katniss.

I stumble along the wall, one spear held at the ready and the other clutched in my left hand, my gaze searching, scanning, seeking—

And then I see her.

She leaps, climbs, crawls up onto a roof.  Her leg wrappings are bloody.  Her face is bloody.  Her hair, her hands, her arms… all bloody.  She holds the bow.  She nocks an arrow.  She waits.  The point of the weapon glints in the rosy light.  The wind tugs at her pitch-dark, messy braid.  She perches, raven-like.  She watches.  She judges.  Her power could be limitless.  She could be one of Odin’s ravens – either Thought or Memory – in disguise.  At last, I see the likeness through her concealing plumage.

The sound of an ax upon a shield.

She loosens the arrow.

A gasping cry.  A man falls.  Chaff scoops up the dropped shield before crashing into an oncoming Northman.

Katniss draws back another arrow.  Sights.

Mitchell is outnumbered.

An arrow whistles past his ear.  His opponents are halved.

Gale fights with a pair of axes – one his own and the other Norse-made.  He strikes the inside of his enemy’s thigh.  Blood.  Blood spurting in time with a frantic heartbeat.  No one could survive such a wound.  Gale is already seeking another victory among the labyrinth of cottages and livestock pens.

Katniss changes her perch.  More arrows scream through the rosy light of the setting sun.  Every shot or two, she moves, following the fight, crouching low upon the thatch to avoid the spears, until she has only one arrow left.  This time, when she makes to leap for the roof of a neighboring house, a bracer-clad arm shoots out.

Broad fingers wrap around her foot.  Pull down.

She disappears between the cottages.

_No!_

I reaffirm my grip on the spear in my grasp.

_Come out!_

The distance is almost too far.  The fortress archers do not dare to shoot – their arrows will not be true to their aim and no one here will carelessly risk the lives of their best fighters.  There is no room upon the wall for the running steps which precede a good spear-throw, but as I cannot run I have no need of them.  All I need is a clear shot.

_Come on, Katniss!_

And then she rolls out into the street, coming up on her knees with an ax in hand.

I do not see her bow.

But I see her opponent.  He has a shield.  Katniss does not.

He moves in, presents his back to me.

I hurl the spear.

His entire body spasms in reaction.  Katniss’ ax cleaves the muscle between his neck and shoulder.  He falls.  She grabs the spear, ripping it from the back of the man’s thigh.

“Thresh!” she screams.

A struggle just beyond the corner of a house.  Katniss takes one leading step.  A second.  Throws.  A lurch of a body – whose I do not know.

A moment later, Thresh emerges, spear in hand.  He turns sharply, raises the weapon, braces for the blow with both hands.  An ax powers through the shaft.  Thresh drops the halves, attacks with his long knife—

Mason backs into the roadway, clutching his opponent’s ax arm.  His own weapon arcs down to the man’s knee.  Blood—

Boggs knocks a man down.  He rolls over, kicking Boggs’ legs out from under him.  Boggs’ ax tumbles away.  He reaches for his knife—

A form separates from the deepening shadows behind Chaff who is battling another—

Katniss with a too-short spear – Thresh’s castaway weapon.  She drives the point beneath the ribs of the approaching Northman.  He cries out.  Chaff turns.  Too late to warn him.  A sword blade chops downward.

A choked scream.

Blood.

Katniss yanks the shortened spear out of the fallen, flailing man.  Leaps over Chaff’s wilted form.  Rams the point through his opponent, finding flesh through a tear in the man’s leather chest armor.  She viciously rotates the spear head, drops her arm, jabs upward until blood spurts out of the man’s mouth.

I can believe now that she is strong enough to kill a boar.

“Chaff!” she rasps, fumbling in the blood-thickened dust for his arm.  His hand is—

Mitchell rolls into view again, a bloody arm pressed against his bloody, leather vest.  He has no weapon.  I launch my second spear the moment his pursuer charges into view.  It strikes him under the arm.  Mason barrels into the street, ax already in motion—

I look away.  Katniss is hauling Chaff to his feet, his arm around her shoulders.

“Haymitch!” I scream.  “Get your fighters out there!”

He might not understand my words, but the accusative finger I point first at his chest and then into the blood-splattered village is enough.

He holds up his hands and that’s when I heard the thud of the gate opening.  While I’d been absorbed in the battle, lost in what had felt like hours of bloodshed but had only been a few short minutes, Samland’s fighters had been assembling and prying the bar up from the gate… and now the Northmen are overrun.  I clamor down the steps.

“Katniss!”

I am unarmed, but I do not care.

“Katniss!”

And there she is, her gaze on me, her lips moving, but she’s too winded to holler back.  I reach her side.  “Let me take him.”

“We’re fine.  Mitchell—”

I scan the village.  I see— “Mason has him.”  Hobbling around to Chaff’s other side, I ball up the fabric of my cape and press it tightly to the stump where his left hand had once been.  “Inside,” I urge.  “The bleeding must be stopped immediately.”  I steer them both toward the dining hall with its ever-lit hearths and long tables.

“Katniss!  Peeta!” Prim yells, hurrying towards us from across the bailey.

“Stoke the fire!  And blades.  We need knives!” I shout at her as I very nearly lift Chaff up the steps.  I dimly hear Katniss translating.  Prim dashes ahead of us into the hall.

“What will you do?” Katniss asks as I roll Chaff onto the table nearest the massive fireplace.  I struggle to unknot the mantle’s collar from around my neck.

“Keep this here.  Tight,” I instruct, finally peeling the thing up past my ears and over my head.

Prim appears with several cooking knives and I stab the flat of my hand at the fire until, wide-eyed, she thrusts them into the flames.  “I’m sorry,” I continue, glancing down.  My tunic will be covered in blood before long and this is the one she and Katniss had fashioned for me.  “Tunic?”  I reach out my blood-smeared hands.  Prim unknots my belt and pulls the tunic up over my head, leaving me in my shift and trousers.

“Peeta!” Katniss calls.  She is nearly as pale as Chaff.  His eyes are glassy, but he is still breathing.  I can see the rise and fall of his chest.  “What do you plan?”

I check the knives, but it is too soon for them to be hot enough.  They are not glowing yet.  “The plan is to keep the blood in his body,” I tell her.

“How?”

“Sear his flesh shut.”

“With hot metal?”

“Yes.”

She turns away and vomits.  Well, better now than when the odor of cooking flesh is thick in the air.

I’m aware of further commotion: Mitchell being brought in.  Gale is limping.  Thresh and Boggs hurry over to Chaff.  They lay their hands on his good arm and shoulder, murmur as if to bid him farewell.

“He will not die,” I growl even as I peel my shift off and wipe Katniss’ sticky lips with the hem.  I push her sweaty, bloody hair back to clean her brow.  “Tell them for me, please,” I implore, willing her to focus.  “Tell them I will not allow your friend to die.”

She gathers her strength.  The life comes back into her eyes suddenly and brilliantly, like a flash of lightning against a stormy sky.  I do not try to learn her words now.  I take over her task and hold the ruined wool of the cape Katniss had given me to the man’s wrist.  Placing my hand on Chaff’s neck, I count the pulse beats beneath his skin.

He is weak.  Very weak.

“Katniss,” I begin, interrupting her exchange with Boggs.  “Check the knives.  Lift them out of the fire and show me the blades.  Take care not to burn your hands.”  To aid her with this, I press my shift into her grasp.  She jerkily lopes over to the hearth and, wrapping the fabric around her hand, removes one knife from the fire.  Lifts it up.  It has just started to glow.

“Not yet,” I say.  She shoves it back into the flames and pulls out a second.  This knife is thinner, used for slicing flesh rather than hacking through bone.  This one is orange.  “Bring it over.”

I take it from her hand – the heat from the handle stings my fingers, but I hold on.  Then I carefully peel the wool away from Chaff’s arm.  His life’s blood spurts weakly from his severed limb.  There is no time to wash the mangled flesh.  I hope he is strong enough to outlast the oncoming fever.  Leaning my body across his chest, I press the glowing flat of the blade to his severed pulse.

He screams.  Writhes, tries to shove me off, but I hold steady.  Friendly hands grasp Chaff’s shoulders and legs.  His neck cords.  Katniss captures his head so he cannot bang it against the table.  As his pain subsides, I rasp my apologies and flip the blade around, burning him all over again.  The reek of singed flesh and spewed stomach juices fills the air.  I gag, but keep my teeth together.

When the knife has cooled beyond its usefulness, I turn to Katniss.  “Bring me another.”

Chaff is too wrung out to do more than moan as I finish cauterizing his flesh.

Now I understand why my mother had never let me nearer than the back door of the kitchen when she’d been treating deep knife wounds.  I shudder.  I will never forget this smell.

“Mitchell?” I ask, glancing at the other table.

“Many cuts,” Katniss reports tiredly.

“Is he still bleeding?”

She doesn’t know.

“Give Chaff some water and let him sleep,” I advise and then push up from the bench to join Prim with her second patient.

With Mitchell’s torso bared, I can easily see the cut across his chest.  It looks like it stings, but the bleeding has already slowed.  A deep cut on his bicep is clotting.  All his other injuries could be called scratches.  So long as he keeps up his strength, he’ll be fine.

Recalling his unsteady gait, I scan the room for Gale.  He stands beside the hearth, arms crossed and face pinched with pain.  It doesn’t even occur to me to hesitate.  I limp over to him.  “Show me,” I demand, gesturing for him to lift up his tunic.

He glares at me.

“Shall I summon Primrose?”

He glowers.

I stare him down.

Jaw clenched and teeth gritted, he turns around gingerly.  I can feel his gaze as he turns his head to watch me peel up the blood-soaked hem of his tunic.  It’s an ax wound just below his waist.  Any higher and it might have cut through to his guts.  Any more centered and it would have sliced through his spine.  The hip bone beneath is probably cracked, but not broken.  After all, he is standing upright.

I don’t ask for his permission.  I pluck another knife from the fire, grit my teeth against the heat of the handle, and apply the blade to the wound.  Gale flinches, lurches forward, and lets out a string of curses that lifts every head in the room with the exception of Chaff’s.  I clamp my hand around his shoulder and shadow him, making every effort not to slice him open even further.  By the time I’ve sealed one side of the cut, Thresh has wrapped his hands around Gale’s arms and braced his entire body against his friend’s to hold him still.  I tilt the knife and finish the job.

“You will have a scar – a mark – there,” I tell him.  “But it will heal faster.”

Katniss conveys this from where she leans heavily against Chaff’s table, looking pale and worn and ill.  The sight of her makes me ache to repair the damage done to her spirit this day.

I don’t wait for Gale’s thanks.  I drop the knife and step out of arm’s reach before Gale can do something with his trembling fists.  I kneel on the bench, facing Katniss and blocking out the others so that it is just her and me.

I ask, “Are you injured at all?”

She shakes her head.  “No, um.  My head—”  She points and I carefully slide my fingers into her crusted hair.  The bump is small.  She will be fine.  “And I will be, um, pain.  My arms, legs, back.”  Sore muscles, yes, that’s to be expected.  I cradle her jaw.  Her cheeks are scratched.  I collect her hands.  Her knuckles are scraped.

Her eyes meet mine.

I need her.

“Come with me,” I implore on a breath, uncurling my fingers from her wrists and opening my hands so that she can choose whether or not to take them.  “Please.”

Her palms slide against mine.  I pull her to her feet and, with a glance around the room, I confirm that the injured are being tended to.  Primrose now has several serving women assisting her.  Katniss and I quietly exit the hall.

I pull her into the small room off of the kitchen which has a drain set into the floor.  This place is used for washing clothes and bathing although the people here do not do so as often as the people of my former country.  Against the far wall, a fire is crackling in the raised stone hearth.  A cauldron of water steams beside it.

Seeing our destination, Katniss gives me a slight frown, the sort which is the product of a small headache.

“What—”

“Show me,” I whisper, kicking the door shut behind us.  “I need to see you.  I need to see that you are unhurt.”

She blinks once.

I lean my forehead against hers.  Her palms flatten upon my bare chest.  I try my best to fight the shudder that ripples through me.  “Please, Katniss.  Show me.”

I wait.  One breath.  Two.  Three.

Finally, she nods.


	42. Peeta's Voice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted early by popular demand! You all are the best feedbackers EVER. I LOVE YOU. (^_^)

(Peeta)

 

Katniss shuffles to a wooden bench while I fetch a laundered cloth from the basket near the hearth, wrapping it around my hand before hauling the steaming pot from the fire by its metal handle.  I am not patient enough to prepare a proper bath for her.  This clean rag and the cauldron of almost too-warm water will have to suffice for now.  When I turn back around, Katniss is seated, her fingers picking weakly at her belt.

I move toward her, crouch, offer my assistance in silence.  Her hands fall away… and the knot falls apart beneath my fingers.  The length of leather slithers and hisses onto the stone floor.  My hands find the hem of her tunic: a lift of her hips… a murmur of fabric over raised arms… the soft slap of her braid as it falls against the undyed fabric of her shift.

And now, with her tunic warming the space beside her, I straddle the bench, moving slowly, as if each action is a word too sacred to be uttered aloud: I reach down to the cauldron, swirl the square of fabric in the hot water, wring it out, and then gently pass it over her face.  The removal of the dust, blood, sweat, bile, and all other manner of foulness reveals her to be paler than I’d expected.

I clean her up.  Every curve of her face.  The ridge of her ears.  The slope of her throat.  The line of her collarbones…  Until I encounter the edge of her shift.

When my hand pauses, I look up.  She looks back.

“Your boots next,” I rasp.  My voice sounds disused.  Rough.  I make sure my hands are gentle.

She watches me sink down in front of her, sitting back on the balls of my feet.  I look down.  The leather ties are caked with filth; the blood has already started to harden the leather as it dries.  Recalling the sureness of her footing during the battle, I silently thank these boots.  They kept her safe, enabled her to fight, aided her with every step.  I untangle the laces, tug them off, and place them aside with reverence.

Her leggings receive my attention next.  If I had not spent the last nearly-dozen mornings watching Katniss tuck the fabric tightly around her shapely ankles, they would have defeated me, but I _had_ seen it so I know the secret of unraveling it.  Lifting Katniss’ bare left foot, I cradle it in the crease between my hip and thigh, hoping to warm her chilled, clammy skin as my fingers dip beneath the edge of the fabric, close around the end of the wrapping, and begin to unwind it from around her ankle… her shin… then her calf… and her knee – two turns there… up her thigh… across her hips… until the cloth dangles from where it’s caught in the soft belt at her waist.

That’s one side done.  I leave her left foot where it is rather than returning it to the cold floor, and begin again with the other.  She watches me in silence as I unwrap her, reveal her.  Despite the blood that has stained and soaked into the worn fabric, the skin beneath is smooth and unbroken.  When both her legs and her hips are bare, I untie the belt which traps the length of cloth snugly against the cradle of her body, from navel to the small of her back.

She shifts forward and lifts up off of the bench so I can pull the material out from underneath her, leaving her in nothing but a short, tunic-length shift which pools at her hips.  I’ve never seen so much of her before, never dared to look so openly.  My gaze lingers on her.

She takes my breath away.

“I’m fine,” she insists as I kneel, my hands upon her bare feet, trying not to gawk at the shadowy recess between her thighs.  “You see?  I’m fine.”

“You are perfect,” I agree, summoning my wits and forcing my thoughts away from the contemplation of her softest places.  That is not why I’d asked her here.  That is not what I _need_ to see.  I need to see, to _know,_ to _feel_ that she is uninjured.

“Please.  Allow me…”  Swallowing thickly, I reach for the hem of her shift.  “May I?”

She lifts her hips – I tug the garment up to her waist.  She raises her arms – I slip it over her head.

She is bare.  Completely bare.

So beautiful.

And, aside from the mild hurts I’ve seen on her face, hands, and scalp, she is perfectly whole.  Safe.

“Peeta,” she prompts.

“Sorry,” I mumble, flushing.  “I… you’re, um.”  I look up and meet her eyes.  She is exhausted.  “Beautiful,” I finally say, cupping her cheek.  She sighs softly in disbelief.  I ignore her resistance to the truth.  I won’t win this battle tonight, but someday she will accept it.

Cradling her cheek in one hand and her forearm in the other, I vow, “I’ll take care of you.”

I don’t encounter any objections or hesitation when I urge her to stand.  Mindful of the risk of catching a chill, I bathe her with efficiency and a firm touch, just as my mother had done for me when my body had been struggling to pull itself back together.

But… despite my determination to remain impartial and unaffected, I cannot help but note the silken texture of her.  Every inch of her.  I am mesmerized.

The strength of her muscles, some of which tremble from overexertion…

The notches of bone pressing close to the skin – collarbone, shoulder joint, hip bones, knees, ankles…

The secret places one must receive permission to touch – the soft space behind her delicate ears, the inner hollow tucked beneath her arm, the shadowed curve beneath her breasts, the juncture between her thighs, the tender back of each knee, the soles of her feet…

Throat dry, body aching, pulse frenzied – my hands shake as I wrap her shoulders in a fleece and then shake out a second, taking a moment for myself.  After three deep, calming breaths, I guide her until she is lying back along the length of the bench before tucking the second fleece around her bare legs and feet.  I then pour half of the water into a small basin.

Straddling the bench just above her head and bracketing the basin with my thighs, I loosely coil her matted braid into the water.  With gentle strokes of my fingers, I begin unweaving and washing her hair.

The water is fouled quickly but I wait until I’ve worked through every tress before dumping it out and refilling the basin.  She arches her back, submerges her dripping hair once more all the way up to her scalp, and I conduct a careful massage, checking for additional hurts, but there is only the one she had admitted to in the dining hall.

Long minutes pass and I know I should let her rise, help her wring out her hair, set her beside the hearth to keep warm while I fetch clothing for her from her bed chamber… but I linger.

“Peeta?”

“Hm?”

“Will you, uh, after we marriage, um, do this?  Again?”

Smiling, I lean down and press a soft kiss to the center of her forehead.  “Every day if you wish it.”

When she sighs this time, it an exhalation of pleasure.

Eventually, I cannot delay any longer.  I leave her seated comfortably beside the room’s cheery fire and head off to collect garments for her to wear.

As I pass briefly through the dining hall, Prim’s inquisitive gaze finds me and I offer her an encouraging smile: _Yes, Katniss is all right._

Her narrow shoulders relax.

I glance in Chaff’s direction.  She nods once: _He’s still alive._

I change clothes quickly before bundling up a gown, shift, and a pair of slippers.  I grab a wooden comb and my old mantle then return to my betrothed.

My betrothed.  Katniss is my betrothed.

“Why are you smiling?”

Katniss doesn’t even open her eyes to make this observation.  Her mouth curves reluctantly, tempting me to taste the slow curl of it.

“We are betrothed,” I answer.

She chuckles soundlessly.  “I thought it is impossible,” she admits.  “You and me, betrothed.”  Her lashes lift as if the weight of the world rests upon them, but her eyes glow with a warmth that sustains me.

“We’ve made it possible,” I soothe her, taking a seat in front of her and trying not to stare at her bare thighs.  I’ll never forget the feel of her soft, downy skin beneath my chafed and tender palms.

I offer her the bundle of clothing but keep the comb for the time being.  “We’ve made it real.”

“Yes,” she answers.  “This is real.”

I move to turn my back so she can dress, behaving as I have always done, but her hand on my arm stops me.  She passes the fleece to me and I curl my fingers into the uncombed wool as I watch her pull on the clean shift and gown.

“These shoes,” she mutters with a wince.

“I’ll clean your boots tonight,” I promise.  It is the least I can do to express my thanks for her safety and wellbeing.

She is too tired to refuse.  “Thank you.”

With a smile of welcome, I pat the hearth ledge in front of me and hold up the comb by way of explanation.

She sits with her back to me and I spread my mantle over her to help keep back the chill as I begin slowly untangling the knots in her hair.  I’d seen Harald’s slave women do this for each other night after night in my childhood.  I mimic them, collecting a lock of hair in the cradle of my thumb and forefinger.  Then, I begin at the bottom and comb higher with each pass.

“You know this, too?” Katniss practically purrs.  “To take care of a woman’s hair?”

I shrug.  “I spent two years confined to the meal-fire with my mother and the other slave women.  I noticed a few things.”  I had cared for my mother like this in her final days.  I’d not had the skill to cure her illness, but perhaps bathing and tending to her had helped ease some of her discomfort.

Katniss clears her throat.  “And… did you notice other things?”

I frown.  “Other things?”

She shakes her head, tugging at the tresses caught in the teeth of the comb.  “No.  Nothing.  Um, please forget.”

“What other things?” I persist.

She relents because she is too tired to resist.  “Um… bathing?”

“My mother was a healer,” I remind her, feeling as though I have not answered what she is trying to ask at all.  “Was it, um, all right?  Tonight’s bath?”

She is silent for so long that I begin to believe she will not answer.  “Yes,” she whispers.  “Thank you.  For the bath.”

I let out the breath I’d been holding.  “I would say you were welcome except, I think I may have enjoyed it more than you did.”

She huffs out a soft laugh.  I join her.  Several passes of the comb later, she confides, “I trust you.  Very much, Peeta.  I trust you… everything.”

“Completely?”  My chest aches at the mere hint of the possibility.  “You trust me with everything?”

“Yes.”  She twists toward me and places a hand on my knee.  “I trust you.  I give you my people, my country, my… um, me…”

My mouth opens.  No words emerge.

And then she gives me an even greater sign of trust: “Help me, uh, prepare dinner – my father’s dinner.  Tonight.”

What can I do when offered something so significant other than accept?  “I will.”

She leaves her hand upon my knee, doodling designs against my trouser fabric while I finish combing her damp hair.  The twin sensations of the heat from her inquisitive touch and the coolness of her damp tresses between my fingers clash, creating a churning storm in my belly.

“Do you know the effect you have upon me?” I ask softly when she stands.

Her grey-eyed gaze flicks down to my lap and a brief smile laced with feminine pride races across her lips.  “I am sorry.”

She does not mean it, but I do not hold it against her.

In the kitchen, the night-meal is stewing, roasting, and boiling.  I mash the softest of the boiled vegetables, slice the meat finely, and hold the bowl for Katniss as she ladles a serving of stew into it.  With a brief detour to gain Prim’s approval and check on Chaff, we head to her father’s rooms.

I am surprised to see Haymitch sitting with the king when we arrive.  The steward’s hair is windblown and there are smears of either mud or blood on his hands.  He clutches the hard leather casing of his flask tightly.  Upon seeing us, he barks an accusation at Katniss, who merely shrugs and moves to pet her father’s brow.  The king’s bony fingers twitch needily and she takes his hands in both of hers.  She murmurs to him soothingly again and again as his eyes focus here and there, his gaze roving over her face so that he can commit every abrasion to memory.

Sitting beside her with the tray of food balanced upon my lap, I wait for the intensity of their visit to wane before reminding Katniss of the king’s night-meal.  When a note of finality enters Katniss’ narrative, Haymitch speaks up first.

I hear: _Peeta._

I hear: _fortress._

I hear: _spear._

Katniss whips around with surprising energy and gapes at me.  “The spear was yours?  From the top?  On the wall?”

“Um, yes,” I acknowledge.

She shakes her head.  “That is… _far._   What—?”

I puff up my chest playfully – I must jest about it because the memory of Katniss on the verge of being cut down in battle before my very eyes is still too terrifying for me to fully face.  “I’m pretty good with a spear.”

She gapes at me.

A strangled moan breaks our locked gazes.  The king twists one hand from Kantiss’ grasp and his fingers search in my direction.  I lean closer and offer him mine.  I can imagine what he wants to say, but I do not deserve his thanks.

“No, King Everdeen,” I say slowly in the Samish language.  I hope he can understand my awkward words.  I hope that the few that I know will make sense.  “I thank _you_ for Katniss.  She is my sunshine and shade.  And—” _for as long as—_ “I live, she lives.”  Meeting the king’s gaze, I press my free hand – fisted – to my chest.  I do not hesitate to make this vow although I do not make it lightly.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Haymitch’s brows shoot up his forehead like a pair of startled pheasants.  Beside me, Katniss stiffens.  Before me, the king’s eyes moisten with tears.

“Peeta…” Katniss breathes.  Her hand guides my chin toward her.  When I look into her eyes, the joy I see there is more stunning than anything that has ever been sung of from Valhalla.  “You found your voice.”

“Is it good?”  That is the best I can hope for at this point.

She shakes her head in awe.  “It is beautiful.”

“Ah, dumpling,” Haymitch drawls after a single, well-timed cough to break our focus.  He mumbles something, perhaps an excuse, as he slaps his hands on his thighs, stands, and strolls out of the room.

I frown after him, turning over a word he’d used that sounds vaguely familiar.

“Katniss,” I broach cautiously as she reaches for the bowl of stew and the wooden spoon.  “What is the word Haymitch said?”  I repeat it as best I can.

To my unending shock, she laughs and King Everdeen snorts.

“What?” I demand, feeling bereft of the joke.

“It is _buttercream,”_ she informs me, placing the spoon in the bowl.  I’m dumbfounded as she pets the fair skin over my cheekbone and runs her fingers through my hair.  “I am _dumpling_ and you are _buttercream.”_

My mouth falls open.

Katniss grins.

Her father chortles weakly.

A moment passes before I finally give in and laugh.  Perhaps I ought to be offended or irritated, but there is no point.  We are family – all of us – so I had simply better get used to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally got this far into writing this fic before I thought to check what kind of food people might have eaten in the southern Baltic in medieval times… which was when I discovered the existence of pierogi… or Eastern European dumplings which date way back. Maybe not as far back as this fic goes, but we’re talkin’ centuries here. How did I choose Katniss’ Haymitch-given nickname without knowing this ahead of time? I mean, like… whut???
> 
> So... am I still in the T-rating zone with this chapter?


	43. Salute

(Katniss)

 

Awareness soaks into me one droplet at a time, like morning dew but warm rather than cool.  The sensation blends into the memory of lying down upon my bed and sighing into Peeta’s hands as he’d rubbed my arms and back and legs, soothing the ache of sore muscles away before it could blossom.

Peeta has wonderful hands.  I have never flinched from him despite it being my first instinct, no matter if the man in question is a friend.  Haymitch respects this.  Gale ignores it.  The others leave me be.

I wish my father could reach out to me on his own.  My heart aches for him, aches for the memory of his strong arms and a warm embrace that had always made me feel safe.  Peeta gives me that again, renewed.  I feel safe with him.

Burrowing deeper into the warmth of my bed, I instinctively move toward the center, toward the body that should be lying next to me, waiting for me to accept the invitation of his widely-flung arms… but there is no one.

My eyes snap open.  I sit up on my elbows and survey the room.  Dawn has just delivered its morning kiss and, for the first time in over a year, I wake up completely alone.

I toss the fur blankets aside and quickly pull on my gown from the night before.  With a grimace, I slide my feet into the pair of insubstantial slippers that Prim prefers and begin braiding my hair even as I charge out the door and down the corridor.  I can think of one or two places Peeta might be this early in the morning.  I could wait for him to return, but I don’t want to.  Just as he’d needed to _know_ that I was all right after the battle, I need to make sure that he is still safe in its aftermath.

Perhaps I should trust my friends and allies more.  I should trust that they will see his courage and laud his heroism – the spears he had thrown to aid Mitchell and me must have been guided by Perun himself; they’d descended like a bolt of lightning from the sky.  I should trust Peeta to charm my former allies to his side.

But what if my trust is misplaced?  What if my assumptions are wrong?  What if something else has happened in the night?

I need to _see_ him.

I find him in the dining hall, not in the kitchen or washing room.  My steps falter in my surprise.  I stare.  He is here, slumped beside the massive hearth, two paces away from the table where Chaff rests.  From here I can see the movements of both men’s chests, so there is no cause for urgency, no need for my heart to race or my hands to fist.

As I approach, I realize that Peeta is awake, staring blearily at something cupped in his hands.

“Hey,” I greet, using the Northmen’s word for snaring someone’s attention.

He looks up.  “Oh.  Hey.  Did you sleep well?”

“Hm.”  It’s on the tip of my tongue to scold him for wandering off so early without waking me, but I bite back the words.  His pale brows twitch together in a frown of concern.  I may have slept well, but I certainly hadn’t woken up pleasantly.  My haphazardly woven hair and slightly-skewed gown attest to that.  I say, “Did you sleep?”

He lets out a deep breath and shakes his head.  “No.  I… I came to relieve Prim after you were resting.”  His lips curl upward into a smile I want to taste.  “I hope Rory rubs her back for her.  She was out cold, leaning against the table when I came in.”

I can imagine how stiff she must be feeling.  I wince.  “Thank you, but… you stayed here?”  He hadn’t had to.

Peeta nods, his tired eyes moving to focus on Chaff.  “He is my first, um…”  He rolls his shoulders, too drained to search for the right word.  “I was worried I’d failed.  He has a fever now.”

I move to place the inside of my wrist on Chaff’s brow.  His skin is dry and burning.  I grope for the nearby cloth, swish it in a handy bucket of clean water, wring it out, and wipe my friend’s face, neck, and shoulders.

“Thank you,” Peeta breathes.  He is exhausted.

“Come to bed,” I invite, turning to him.

“I’m all right.  I’ll wait for Prim to wake.”

Stubborn man.  With a huff, I sit down next to him on the hearth’s stone ledge.  It’s then that I notice my boots and belt set out before the flames to dry.  “You cleaned them,” I blurt.  Not only that but he’d oiled them to a suppleness I’m not sure they have ever enjoyed.

“They aided you,” he explains.  “The belt held your knife and ax.  The shoes gave you sure footing.  I owe them thanks for keeping you safe.”

I laugh softly.  “I do, too.”  I lift one foot up and show off my thin-soled footwear.  “These will kill me in battle.”

“Yes, they would have.”

Peeta’s solemn tone surprises me.  Our gazes meet.  He looks down first and holds out his hands to me, revealing the object in his gentle grasp.  “What do you think?  For our wedding?”

I glance down.  My breath stills in my lungs.  “Peeta… you made a cup?”

“It’s not finished yet,” he warns me.  “If you don’t like it, I can make another…”

I shake my head resolutely.  “No.  The first is best.  Always the best.”  It is always the most sincere.  It is always the closest to one’s heart… which is precisely where I want Peeta to keep me.

But for now, I know precisely where I need to keep him.  Curling my hand under his elbow, I give him an insistent tug.  “Come.  To bed.”  We have hours before breakfast is ready and I intended for him to use that time to rest.

“Chaff—” he protests as I reach across and gather my boots and belt with my other hand.

“I’ll wake Prim.  It’s all right.”  And, more than that, I insist.  I steer Peeta toward the corridor and send him on to my room as I pause beside Prim’s door.

She calls out at my knock.  “I’m awake!”

“It’s me,” I say through the door.  “Chaff is still sleeping and Peeta needs to rest.”

She throws the door open, her lips parted in a gasp and her eyes wide.  “He was there all night?”

I’m taken aback by her surprise.  “Apparently.  Who were you expecting to relieve him?”

“Someone who’s going to be hearing a great deal about it from me!”

Faced with Prim’s shockingly stern scowl, I let it go.  “Could you have someone come get us for breakfast?”

“Of course.”

When I enter my bed chamber, Peeta is sitting at the foot of the bed, still dressed and still contemplating the roughly hewn cup in his hands.  I lock the door and sink to my knees before him.  My words of concern and inquiry jam together in my throat.  A lock of golden hair has tumbled over his brow and hangs limply.  I reach up and gently push it back.

He sighs.  Sags.  Surrenders.

“I fear sleep,” he admits.  I wait for him to tell me why.  “When I close my eyes, I… I see you again… in the battle.  He grabs your foot and this time I’m too slow or my aim is wide or I don’t have any spears at all or you never emerge from between the houses or—”

“You dreamed last night?  This?”

He nods pitifully, drawing in a shaky breath and blinking against the moisture in his eyes.  “I’m sorry you were alone.  I’d planned to be back before you woke.”  His gaze sweeps from the top of my head to the skirt of my gown which has pooled around my knees.  He gives me a weak smirk.  “But you _might_ trust me to manage on my own.”

“I trust you,” I retort, ignoring the pinch of guilt.  “I do not trust… um, chance.”  That is the closest word to “luck” that I know in the Northmen’s language.

Peeta looks like he wants to argue that our fortunes cannot change so quickly in one night, but we both know that is not true.  Between one instant and the next, I’d gone from being a king’s daughter to an enemy’s captive; Peeta had gone from being a freed slave to a future king; a peaceful day had shifted to one of blood, death, and strife.

He releases a very deep breath.  “I don’t trust chance, either.”

I don’t say anything as I remove his boots, unknot his belt, and tug his tunic over his head.  We burrow into the furs.  Our grip upon each other is desperate.

His arms tighten around me until my ribs bend.  “Did I almost lose you?” he chokes.  “The truth, please, Katniss.”

I take a breath.  I do not want to live through the memory of it again, but he needs this.  I relent: “He caught my foot.  I fell.  There was a wall.  I hit my head.”

Peeta’s jaw clenches.

“I didn’t close my eyes,” I reassure him, recalling my frantic determination to survive.  “I kicked, um, between his legs.  His ax cut the, uh, thread, um…”  I wiggle a bit, wishing I could mime using my bow to explain.

“It cut the bow string?”

“Yes.  His arm was down.  I kicked again.  Pushed back, um, into the street.  He came and then your spear—”

He blows out a breath against the top of my head and his warm hands rove up and down my back and arms.

“I can take my ax and…”  I press a finger to the side of Peeta’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.  “You wanted peace.”

I know.

“But thank you for fighting.”

I blink.  “No one said thank you.  To me.  Before.  Um, after I fought.  You are the first.”

Peeta presses his lips to my forehead and murmurs the words again… and again… and again… until he falls asleep.  Only then do I let myself imagine what the battle must have looked like to him, trapped on the wall.  I don’t try to stop the tears, but I make sure I remain silent.

When the knock comes upon the door, I am not ready for it.  Peeta is not ready for it.  He wakes – I know he does – but keeps his eyes closed and turns his cheek further into the bed.  I straighten my gown and answer the summons.

“Prim!” I whisper.  “What…?”

She thrusts a tray heaped with food at me.  “Rest, Katniss.  Take care of Peeta.”

“How is everyone?” I demand softly.

“Chaff is still fighting the fever.  It might be a few days before we’ll know for sure.  We’ve moved him to a bed.  Mitchell is fine.”

“And Gale?”

“Knocking around like an angry bear,” she replies with a tired smile, which I return.  Neither of us would expect anything less from him.  “Haymitch is keeping him in line.”

“And I’ll make sure Gale never lives that down.”  I chuckle.  Prim giggles.  “Thank you,” I continue, “for the food.”

Prim places her hand on my arm.  “I don’t think I’ve told you – and I should have – but… Peeta is such a good man.  And a lucky one.  He has you.”

I blink against the sudden rush of heat in my eyes.  “Prim—”

“Just get him ready for dinner tonight.  Get both of you ready.”

She waits for me to nod and then she shuts the door.  Peeta stirs.  “Here,” he offers, holding out a hand as he pushes himself up from the bed.  “I’ll take—”

“It’s not heavy,” I insist, setting the tray down upon the foot of the bed.

He sighs.  “You are so stubborn.”

“Says you!” I retort with a disbelieving grin.

He ducks his head but not fast enough to hide his smile.  We eat.  We rest.  We watch the beams of sunlight slip slowly through the room, moving across the floor and furniture.  His fingers comb through my hair, mine pet his face, his neck, his shoulder.  I close my eyes, press my ear to his chest and listen to his heartbeat.  He kisses my forehead once, twice, three times, and I forget to keep count after that.

Amazement creeps over me slowly as the peace of this day spent in bed settles into my skin, muscle, bones.  There have been times when the need to touch Peeta is almost a frenzy, when I must have his taste and heat and we must consume each other, and I fear those moments even as I crave them, but there are times like this when the need is deeper and softer, when placing my hands upon him and his upon me quiets my mind and eases my heart.

At eventide, I dare a soft, lingering kiss upon his lips.  His fingertips brush over my neck and cheeks in reply and he moves with me as I lean back, prolonging the lazy connection our mouths enjoy.  Eventually, we must part, but he is sitting up before that happens.

I smile, squeezing his shoulders beneath my palms.  “Do you miss me?”

He smiles back.  “Always.”

 _But I’m right here._   The words never make it past my lips.  The ache in his earnest gaze stops them cold and shoves them back.  I know that ache.  I feel it, too.  It terrifies me that I need him this badly.

I shift onto my knees and press my forehead to his.  We hold onto each other.

“Come to dinner?” I rasp.

He nods.

I put on my boots and, when we leave, Peeta holds my hand.  We take two steps before he flashes a blindingly brilliant smile at me and dares to pause in the middle of the narrow corridor to guide me in the dance steps we’d learned earlier in the week.  His elbow knocks against the wall.  My heel gets caught in the hem of my dress.  We snort and laugh and fall all over each other.  I forget why I’d felt so scared and unsettled.

That is, until we stumble into the dining hall.

It is filled to capacity.

It is utterly silent.

Everyone is watching us.

I clutch Peeta’s arm, my heart suddenly pounding and stomach clenching.  I recall my confession from the evening before.  In a moment of weakness, I’d admitted my deepest fear that our betrothal would never be made real, that I would lose him.  And now here we stand, facing judgment.  Mason had promised me one chance.  Have I failed?  Has Peeta failed to show everyone how good he is?  Is this the moment they will turn against him?  They will tell me I cannot keep him?

I cannot let him go.  I cannot—

And then someone moves.  Prim.  She lifts her hand to her mouth, presses three fingers to her lips and then holds them out to us.  To Peeta.

Mason and Mitchell follow.  Thresh.  Boggs…

Everyone.

Haymitch is the last to salute, sending me a playful wink.

“Katniss,” Peeta breathes.  “What do we do?”

He is waiting for me to lead him, I realize.  “Look in their eyes,” I coach him.  “Just that.”

He does, and when his gaze eventually comes to rest on me, I discover that I am also saluting him, honoring him.  This gesture is commonly used for a farewell, but it is also meant as a welcome.  Whenever death takes a loved one, whenever a child is born, whenever someone dear transitions through our lives, we salute.

Finally, I can give this to him and all may see it.  He is welcome here.

My hand moves until I am brushing my fingers over his pale beard.  His palm presses against the back of my hand and we smile.  I’m peripherally aware of Haymitch banging his fist on the table and the guests in the hall following suit until a drumbeat takes over the ruckus, pulsing with our thanks to the gods, and the minstrels weave a harmony in celebration: we are victorious and we are safe.

And now, Peeta is truly _home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perun is the god of lightning in Slavic mythology. Just borrowing him for the Samlanders.
> 
> Also, I changed the meaning of the District Twelve salute a little bit. It is not a gesture of welcome in the first book and movie, but of goodbye.


	44. Sharing the Cup

(Peeta)

 

This is not how I’d envisioned the morning of my wedding day would unfold, but I’m not complaining.

Katniss is a vision in her mother’s wedding gown, even with rawhide ties wrapped around the pale, flowing sleeves to hold them back as she sights along the arrow shaft, scowling in concentration.  It makes me glad I’d gone and fetched her bow when Prim had delivered her to the king’s meeting room to rehearse once more with me.  One look at my betrothed’s drawn features and her restless, clutching fingers had convinced me to forgo Prim’s instructions and create our own plans.  I will probably forget some of the words I have to say – so will Katniss – but we’ll stumble along together.

Speaking truthfully, I’m not sure I _want_ either of us to be completely ready.  Is anyone truly prepared for marriage?  I doubt it.  The thought of our promises spoken so smoothly and polished makes my stomach churn: I don’t want our vows of fidelity to be uttered too easily.  They should be hard to say for the path which has led us to this moment had not been an easy one.  Our road – both past and future - is rough, rocky, and real.  So should our wedding day be.

With a twitch of her fingers, Katniss releases the arrow.

A brief whistle—

_Thunk!_

Yet another bull’s eye.  I smile.

“What?” she demands.

I look up so I can catch the teasing sparkle in her grey eyes.  “This was a good idea,” I congratulate myself, “even if showing me how to shoot with a Samish bow was not.”

She winces.  She’d been unsurprisingly abrupt with me earlier.  I would drop my elbow and she’d bark at me, or I’d release on an inhale instead of an exhale and she’d scold.  Eventually, I’d simply handed the weapon back to her, kissed her cheek, and made myself comfortable on the nearest bench.

“I was impatient.”

Her admission widens my grin.

“I’m sorry,” she adds.

I laugh.  “It’s fine.”  I know it had been a product of her nerves.  Mine tend to make me too quiet and too eager in unpredictable turns.  Hers make her consistently irritable and fidgety.  “Can you sit still now?” I cajole playfully.

“Maybe,” she allows, her gaze dropping to my hands.  “You said – that is finished.  Last night.”

“Last night, it was,” I agree, turning over the wooden cup in my grasp.  I’ve been picking at the design with my knife, deepening a few grooves, adding a detail here and there.

“Will you tell me the meaning now?”

I pat the bench beside me in invitation.

With an indulgent huff, she sets aside her newly restrung bow and sits.  I turn so that her knee presses into the side of mine.  She really is lovely.  Her hair is sleek and darker than I can ever remember seeing it, woven in a thick braid which crowns her head.  Prim had threaded early-blossoming wildflowers throughout.  Katniss could be Spring herself.

So lovely, and soon… mine.

I offer the cup to her and watch as she rolls it slowly between her small, dusky hands.  “This is a woman’s face,” she finally decides.

“Yes.  Freyja’s.  She is the goddess of many things, battle and war.  Love and beauty.  She rides into the thick of the battle, and she wears a blessed mantle of falcon feathers.”  I reach out and gently flick the feathered fletch upon the arrows in Katniss’ quiver.  Katniss catches the implication and arches a brow in response to my daring.  I explain further, “She is strong.  Stronger than her husband, Odr, who is actually a bit mad.  Perhaps because he has spent so many years being pleasantly destroyed by her brilliance.”

“Peeta…” she warns me and I think I see a slight blush on her cheeks.

Her protest makes my smile widen.  “Freyja only accepts worthy men into the good and peaceful, verdant fields she oversees in heaven.”

Katniss is very quiet upon hearing this.  I ache to be told her thoughts.

Eventually, she speaks: “I cannot promise that.  Peace.  I cannot promise, Peeta.”

“I know.  I am not expecting that, Katniss.”

She chews the inside of her cheek.  I wait for her to find the words she is searching for.

“And…” she haltingly resumes, “I will do mistakes.” She sighs heavily, gazes blindly at the targets down the shooting lane.  “Today, too.  I want it perfect for you, but…  I did not practice well and…”  Her shoulders slump.  “I will do many mistakes.”

“Katniss,” I whisper, reaching for her face and drawing her toward my gaze.  “I will not mind.”

One corner of her lush lips kicks upward briefly.  “Promise?”

I nod.  “I do not care what happens today so long as tomorrow I wake up with you.”

Her breath catches and the look in her eyes...  My heart stops, trips, stumbles helplessly in reply.

She smiles.  “I can promise that.”

“That is my only request.”

The moment stretches, pulling us closer.  Her hand caresses up from my knee to my thigh, generating a rush and tingle beneath my skin.  Mine moves from the bench to the small of her back, warming my fingertips and shortening my breath.  Her gaze drops to my mouth.  I tilt my chin, lean forward, and—

“Katniss!”

I freeze.  Katniss stiffens.

Prim’s footsteps draw closer.  “Oh!  Peeta, where—?”

“Um, Katniss, yes,” I admit, sitting up straight to reveal the presence of her sister beside me.  I avoid the stern glare I know Prim is giving us.  We weren’t supposed to leave the meeting room.  We were supposed to be practicing our vows.

“Prim,” Katniss acknowledges in a confrontational tone, her jaw locked.  Her sister squawks indignantly and then rushes over to untie the leather cord that is crumpling and wrinkling the sleeves of her fine dress.  Katniss endures the fussing stoically.

I don’t understand Prim’s next remark word-for-word, but her clipped tone and impatient gesture get her point across: they’re ready for us now.  I stand and offer Katniss my hand.

“Wait,” she objects.

Prim makes a sound of protest.  Katniss ignores her and fits her palm against mine.

“I have something for you.”  She removes the arrows from their sheath, reaches in and pulls out what looks like a pair of leather arm bracers.  They are too large for her to wear so that must mean…

Prim takes the arrows, quiver, and bow from her sister.  She is not pleased with the delay, and I’m sure her parting words are a reminder that people are waiting for us, but she gives us one more moment alone.

Katniss waits until her sister has reentered the keep to stow the weapons before she speaks.  “I cannot make a tunic, but I can make these.  To protect you.”

She holds them out to me.

I gape.  They are the most imposing leather gauntlets I have ever seen.  Although they are not studded with metal, they are thick and strong.  The surface is smooth and shimmers in the sunlight.  The edges had been painstakingly softened and rounded.  Struck mute with appreciation, I hold out my wrists to her.  She slides them in place.  They more than fit.  They feel as if they’ve been molded to my form.  I can find no words as she laces them up with deft and dexterous fingers.

When she is done, she holds onto my fingers to admire the effect.

“Thank you, Katniss,” I murmur.

By way of answer, she leans forward and kisses me.  The moment her lips touch mine, she is already stepping away.  I clutch the wooden cup tightly and follow her.  As we pass by the backdoor to the dining hall kitchen, I see Prim standing just inside, watching us make our way to the central yard.

“I don’t think she trusts us,” I whisper with a communicative tilt of my head in the direction of our chaperone.

Katniss snorts softly.  Her humor is harsh and brief.  Her fingers grip my hand too tightly.

“Hey,” I say.  “We’ll be all right.”

Finally, she lets out the breath she’s been holding.  “I know.”

I’m tempted to clutch her hand in return when we come around the corner of the keep and take in the festive atmosphere before us.  Banners are whipping in the late morning breeze.  Ribbons, pennants, and smiling faces.  And – oh, gods.  The crowd.  People are talking with heads bent toward each other and laughing at the occasional jest, dressed in their finest and clutching cuts of wildflowers in their hands.

I scan the festival space and note with some relief the single, long table that had been moved out-of-doors, which is where the king now sits beside Haymitch.  I ignore the steward’s sarcastic smile of greeting and gape.  King Everdeen is _sitting._   He is not slumped over or slouched down.  He is _sitting upright._   His hands are resting limply on the table but… he looks better than I’ve ever seen him.

“Katniss…” I begin, scarcely able to believe what my eyes are showing me, just as she breathes, “Papa…!”

He smiles.

Remarkable.  Impossible.  Amazing.

With each passing day, the king has been fading more and more.  Katniss and I have been doing our best to hide our quiet panic during our daily visits with him.  When he is awake, which is not often, I’ve been speaking to him using the few Samish words I know while Katniss holds his hand and pets his hair.  She stays strong for his sake and he fights for hers, but it is a battle he has been losing.  So, this enthusiasm is an unexpected and genuine surprise.  And a very, very good one.

I turn to Katniss and grin so hard don’t think I’ll ever be able to frown again.  “Thank the gods,” I murmur.  “Do you think he’ll recover?”

She shakes her head.  “I don’t know.  I…  I want to, um.”

She doesn’t have to say another word.  I ignore Prim’s attempts to herd us toward the center of the yard and tug Katniss’ hand.  A single step toward the table is all it takes to impel her move on her own.  I try to keep pace as she nearly drags me to her father’s side.

“Papa,” she greets him softly, leaning down to press her hand to his cheek.  He reciprocates the gesture shakily, embracing her for a long moment before he leans back and looks at me.  I step forward and accept his shaky hand against my neck, bowing my head in deference.

“King Everdeen.  This is good.  Katniss is happy.  Thank you,” I tell him.  For a moment, I think I see tears in his clear eyes.

Haymitch growls shortly.

Katniss snaps at him under her breath.

The king rolls his eyes.

I nearly laugh… and resolve to ask exactly _what_ has been stopping Katniss and Haymitch from killing each other all these years.

And then King Everdeen looks pointedly at the cup in my hand.  I hold it up for him, inexplicably nervous as he takes his time examining every detail.  I remember to breathe again only when his lips twitch, his eyes twinkle, and he offers me the barest of nods.

He approves of me.

And now everyone knows it.

Katniss slides her hand around my elbow and I turn with her to face the people crowding the central yard.  Behind them, the fortress gates are open and I glimpse more people standing along the road and further in the village.  The whole country must be here.

I hold onto my smile a little desperately.  If being on the receiving end of friendly greetings and the occasional pat on the shoulder by strangers had been unnerving over the last few days – ever since the salutation at dinner the day after the battle – then this undivided, albeit enthusiastic, attention is bowel-quaking.

Katniss shifts beside me and I remind myself that I can do this.  I can do this for Katniss.

My gaze lands on the cleared space just in front of the long table and the designs painted onto the ground there: a winter scene of naked trees and snowdrifts has been outlined in soot and pale ash followed by a depiction of a flowery meadow in pinks and yellows beside it, next are the rich greens and blues of the world flushed with summer itself, and finally the reds and oranges of autumn.  All are arranged in an unending circle.  I lead Katniss to the first, the beginning: spring.

We face the crowd as Haymitch speaks.  I do not understand any of these words – they are too formal – and that is probably for the best.  I can focus on slowing my straining heart.

“Haymitch will say our good things,” Katniss had told me.  “Strength and courage and, um, things we gave.  Everyone will know that we are good.  They will respect us and our marriage.”

I have no interest in listening to whatever Haymitch deems good enough to say about me, but I wish I could understand his list of Katniss’ worthy attributes.  How many battles has she fought in?  How many lives has she saved?  How long has she been the Shield Maiden of Samland?

By the gods.  I am marrying a shield maiden, after all.

I’m still staring at her, still smiling, when Haymitch sits down and the world around us is suddenly hushed, silent, waiting.

Katniss turns toward me.  I lift the wooden cup, place it in her uplifted palms and then cradle her hands in mine.  I don’t look away from her grey eyes as Prim comes forward and, from the first of four pitchers, pours cool, clear water into the vessel.

“Katniss,” I begin.  My voice shakes as badly as her fingers.  My anxiety is the harmony to the melody of hers.  “In the spring, I will give you water so that you will have life.”

“I accept,” she breathes, lifting the cup with both hands and drinking before placing it back in my grasp.  “And in return, Peeta, in the spring, I will also give you water, so that you will have life.”

“I accept.”  My words are husky with joy.  I am marrying Katniss.  Right now.  I shakily lift the cup to my lips and finish the remainder of the water.

We move onward through time to the summer, the dyes from spring staining our boots.  The ale is poured.  My smile is an unstoppable force.

“Peeta,” she says next, her voice a little stronger.  “In the summer, I will work by your side, so that we will enjoy happiness.”

The ale slides over my tongue.  I answer her vow.  She drinks.  We move together, entering another season in order to make another promise.

Prim pours the herbal tea.

“Katniss, in the autumn, I will prepare food and herbs, so that your body will be strong…”

We share the words and the contents of the cup, which are bitter yet binding.

There is only one more pitcher yet to be tipped.

My heart is pounding.

“Peeta, in the winter, I will give you warmth, so that you will never lack in hope.”

I tremble in her hands as she holds the cup steady in my grasp.  This is it.  With this final vow among the cinders and ash, we will be wed.  Looking into her eyes, I bring the cup of dark wine to my lips.  It is so sweet it burns like flame, so thick is clings to my tongue like blood.

“Katniss,” I rasp, the wine curling and clinging in my throat.  I barely recognize my own voice.  “In the winter, I will give you warmth, so that you will never lack in hope.”

She drinks.  She lowers the cup.  She smiles.

“Husband,” she says in greeting.

“Wife,” I answer, awed by the glow of victory in her eyes.  Until this moment, I hadn’t been completely sure that Katniss had desired this as much as I had – _do_ – but she does.  She _does._

She is still holding the cup between us and what I do next is not part of the ceremony, but I do not care.  I raise my hands to her face, lean in, and kiss her.

If there are cheers, I do not hear them.  If the wildflowers are tossed onto the ground at our feet, I do not notice.  There is only this moment, this woman.  Her warmth.  Her taste.  Her pulse thrumming beneath my touch.

When we part, I press my forehead to hers, sigh as her fingers brush over my lips and chin.  I give her my oath once more in Norse, the first language in which we’d become friends, “I will give you only good things, Katniss, until my final day.”

“Peeta,” she sighs, “you _give_ me good things.  Only good things.  Every day.  From _our_ first day.”

I open my eyes, drink in her smile, and happily confess, “I am yours.”

Her slender throat tenses, spasms beneath my hands.  She brushes the tip of her nose along the bridge mine until our lips find each other once more.  The moment could not be any more perfect… that is, until she whispers against my mouth, “Is this a dream?”

“No, it’s real,” I tell her.  It is real and _now_ it is perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The stuff about Freyja and Odr is an extremely simplified version of what I gleaned from Wikipedia. (Yay for Wiki!)
> 
> The Samish wedding ceremony has no actual real counterpart that I know of. That's all artistic license, there. Although the use of the four seasons was inspired by a Slavic myth. Check out the story of Jarilo and Morana if you're interested.


	45. The Games Begin

(Peeta)

 

Katniss and I look up, briefly disoriented and clinging too tightly to each other as Haymitch unsuccessfully smothers a loud belch.  The crowd – I’d forgotten they were there – laughs.  The minstrels perform a quick, attention-sharpening tune.

Katniss tugs on my arm and I realize we have one more step yet to take.  Exchanging bashful smiles, we move forward and complete the circle, ending up in the image of spring, smudging the powder with the soles of our boots.  The applause rolls like thunder.  The minstrels take up their instruments in earnest and the music begins.

Prim darts forward over the layer of tossed wildflowers covering the ground around us – thankfully, none had landed inside the circle of the seasons, otherwise I’d be sure to trip.  Katniss passes our cup into her sister’s hands for safekeeping and then turns in my embrace to face me.

The music builds.

Katniss’ hand curls upon my arm.

Every one watches expectantly, waiting.

Oh.  Yes, this is our dance.  But—  “I cannot remember how it begins,” I admit through my sudden blank-minded panic.

“I will show you,” Katniss softly promises.  Her hand guides mine to her waist and her blush renews.  “Trust me.”

“I do.”

“This is you and me… only,” she mouths quietly.

She’s right.  The rest of the world does not matter right now.  _Now_ is for Katniss and me, alone in a circle of colored powder and ash, moving to the music with our palms pressed together and gazes locked.  We are dancing – my wife and I.

Part of me had never truly believed this would happen, but I know it is real because I can feel the calluses of her smaller hands against mine.  And more proof: the gauntlets she’d made for me to protect my wrists and forearms from future hurts are revealed when the sleeves of my tunic slide back.  This is _real._

The ache in my heart is mostly joy, but there is a little despair: my brother is not here to see this and I do not know when I will see him again.  I hadn’t even told him, Kolfrosta, the children, and Sigga goodbye.  I hadn’t even dared to meet my father’s eyes the last time I’d been in his presence and now I will likely never have the change to do so again.

Now, I will be Katniss’ king.  King of Samland.  I almost stumble as fear explodes within me.

It is too late for fear.

As Katniss moves behind me, I close my eyes and focus on the feel of her touch across my shoulders.  I am not alone.  I can do this for Katniss.  I can do this.  And besides, there is time.  Her father still lives.  We have time yet.

Katniss moves into my arms again – this will never _not_ feel like a homecoming – and we share a look, a grin.  Our confidence grows.  She moves a little faster with the beat, turning and stepping with perhaps not grace but pride.  She is proud to have me for her husband, to be showing us off to her people.

I let my hesitance go and surprise an abrupt squeal out of her when I scoop her up in my arms and press a kiss to her jaw.  She laughs softly, clutching my shoulders.  I shudder.  I want her to hold onto me like this later, when we are truly alone.

Lowering myself carefully, I kneel in the swirls of colors at our feet, staining the hem of my long, Samish tunic.  Katniss eases off of my lifted knee and twirls, spinning around me, her fingers dancing through my hair and across the back of my neck before she holds out her hands.  I clasp them.  She pulls me up and I pull her close.

She turns, rolling along my chest and fitting herself beneath my right arm.  Our palms find each other’s.  My lips brush her temple.  My steps are clumsy and weighted to the right, but the feel of her against me is perfection.  As we settle further into the tempo that suits us best, the stomping of feet and clapping of hands joins the drumbeats, spurring us on.

The dance steps push us apart until only our hands – her left and my right – touch.  We watch each other over the tips of our fingers.  Her gaze is intense, unblinking.  Her lips curve in the slightest of smiles.  She is bursting with secrets.

“Are you hunting me?” I tease as we pivot back, switching to press our opposite hands together and circle each other like two lone wolves on a chance meeting in the moonlight.

“Maybe,” she admits.

“What will you do if I let you catch me?”

Her eyes darken, echoing the strange fire that burns deep within me.  “I _already_ caught you,” she argues.

That is true.  She caught me on the road to Trelleborg with a bait of bloody bindings.  “Yes, you’ve caught me… but now _everyone_ knows it.”  I pursue her thoughts with a look of pure invitation.  “So what will you do with me?”

Katniss lifts her chin.  “First, you will be safe.”

My heart warms.  “And then?”

She bites her lip and twists our hands around, levering us deliciously close together.  “You will be mine.”

“I already am,” I remind her.

Her cheeks darken with another flush.  I want her.  I want her alone with me and away from this joyous cacophony and happy chaos.  I want my wife in our bed.  Even if children must wait, there are other things – other touches – we needn’t deny ourselves any longer.

My entire being tingles with heat as the dance permits her to come closer yet.  My hands greedily reach for her waist and hers for my shoulders.  The bodice of her dress brushes the front of my tunic.

Angling my chin down, I whisper into her soft, delicate ear, “Tell me what you will want from me tonight.”  I want to hear her say the words.  We speak in Norse so they will be for me and me only.

“I want…”

“Yes?” I prompt, trying to keep the urgency from my tone.

“Um.”

I relent.  “I will give you anything, Katniss.  Tell me.”

She takes a deep breath, driving her soft breasts against my chest.  I inhale sharply.  “I want to learn,” she finally answers on a rasp.  “You.  I want to learn you.”

Oh, gods.  I cannot permit her to step away as the dance demands, not now.  The hem of my tunic is certainly long enough and the weave of my trousers may be thick enough to conceal the evidence of how very much I like her request, but I cannot risk it.  My desire for her is not meant for the eyes of everyone.

“And will you teach me as well?” I murmur back, my lips brushing her sweaty neck.

She nods.  “Yes.”

The music is winding to a close, crescendoing to a grand conclusion.  I guide Katniss to twirl once in my arms, and then I curl my hand behind her knees again.  She permits me to scoop her up into my arms and kneel in our wedding circle.  I hold her steady as she balances herself upon my knee, braces herself on my shoulders, and kisses me.

I expect a lingering but chaste kiss.  That is not what she gives me.

Her hands fit beneath my jaw and tilt my head back.  Her mouth slants over mine.  Our lips open.  Our tongues touch.  If I don’t pull away now, I won’t be able to stand up at all.

“You toy with me,” I accuse.  The words sound like a growl to my own ears.

“No.  I _promise,”_ she insists with a smile that does nothing to improve my predicament.  I hold her tightly against my lap and ignore the throbbing of my left knee where it is pressing into the hard earth.  I will not be able to dance again tonight, but I do not think Katniss and I could improve upon our performance if we tried again and again until the end of time.

“I accept your promise,” I tease back, “if you will stop tormenting me.”

She very nearly glances downward, down to the uncontrollable manifestation of the effect she has on me.  Thankfully, she catches herself.  I smirk knowingly.

The song ends.  I know we have to rise to our feet but I’m not ready yet.

Katniss rescues me.  She lifts a hand and waves to the crowd, gesturing for the minstrels to begin the next song.  Her voice rings out in invitation and suddenly people begin milling about.  Several small be-ribboned children and young girls trample onto the strewn wildflowers surrounding the blurred circle of seasons, opening the dances for all.  Katniss sits with her arms loosely looped around my shoulders as we watch them spinning and giggling with flower necklaces and braids flying.

As they dance, I imagine a day in the distant future.  Will our daughter laugh and leap and twirl like these girls, her long, dark sun-kissed braids whipping around her?  Will she haul our blushing son after her, embarrassing him in front of his friends at being caught dancing with his silly sister?

They are not even alive, not even born, not even conceived yet and I love them with everything in me.

Wary of disturbing our companionable agreement on the subject of children, I do not mention these thoughts to Katniss but, when I look up, the expression on her face makes me think that perhaps she is thinking the very same thing that I am.

I rub her back to gain her attention and then I nod.  I’m ready to get up and, with her assistance, I do.

“We must speak to my father,” she invites.  “He will rest soon.”

Her father.  Oh, gods.  He’d just seen me dance with his daughter, kneel in public with her upon my knee, and kiss her fully on the mouth.  My embarrassment might immolate me, but I resolve to look the man in the eye.

I am unsure if I should apologize or not.  Such a dramatic display of affection would be laughed at in my homeland, mocked, and promptly dismissed for other amusements, but the people here are different.  I do not know what to expect.

The king’s wistful look surprises me.  As does the wooden box upon the table.  I know what is inside.  Katniss tries to object and I anchor myself by interlacing our fingers.

It is done quickly and with little fanfare.  Haymitch signals for the minstrels to end the song with an attention commanding trill and, with a few short words, he places each fur stole over our shoulders once again.  I think mine has gotten heavier over the past fortnight, since I’d first worn it.  Katniss attends to the clasp on mine as her father looks on smiling with pride.

I remind myself to breathe.

“Don’t worry,” she tells me quietly.  “My father wants only, um.  He shows everyone…  He thinks you are good and I am good.  He shows this now.  That’s all.”

“So you are not Queen Katniss yet?”

She snorts helplessly.  “No.”

I let out a breath in relief.  I know she and I will have to take up the mantle of leadership, I know that it is inevitable, but I am glad not to have to face it today.

I hold onto to Katniss as Haymitch slaps both hands on the table and drawls some manner of announcement.  He looks bored and cynical and… disturbingly amused.  I don’t try to understand the steward’s words or decode the dismissive wave he gives us.  I react to Katniss, to the sudden tightening of her fingers on my tunic sleeve.  She is blushing and everyone is laughing.  A joke at our expense?  But it must not be too bad because Katniss does not turn on Haymitch to defend our honor.

Then, with a disinterested wave of his hand, Haymitch cues the minstrels, wincing at the spritely tune.  He grumbles a bit more and then calls out for Thresh and Boggs.  Katniss presses one more kiss to her father’s temple and squeezes his hand.  “He’ll rest now,” she explains as her fellow warriors emerge from the crowd to assist in moving the king back inside the keep.

I judge now to be the best time to ask.  “What did Haymitch say?” I murmur too softly for anyone to hear.

Katniss glances in her mentor’s direction.  He smirks at us and offers a cocky salute with his cup.  Katniss keeps her chin held high until the instant Haymitch’s ass lands back on his padded bench, at which time she turns to me and begins to translate.  “Um.  It is a game.”

Frowning, I follow Katniss’ lead as she walks me slowly away from the table.  We are some distance from the celebrants, but plainly visible.  I long for a moment of true privacy.

“A game?” I ask.  “What sort of game?  And what did Haymitch say to make everyone laugh just now?”

“Oh.”  Katniss pauses and draws in a breath.  I sense an oncoming, _lengthy_ explanation.  “Um.  At a wedding, um, first are the four promises.  With the cup,” she explains with composure, “then the dance.”

Which we have done.  “Yes, and?”

She grits out, “And next is the kiss and catch.”

“The what?”

Katniss blusters out a sigh.  “Haymitch said, um, if people see us, uh, _kiss—_ ”  I know without a doubt that Haymitch would not have settled on so tame a word.  Katniss’ encompassing gesture affirms my suspicion.  “They will take our hands and go to Haymitch.  They will be victor?  No… winner?  There are many gifts so…”

I follow her gaze to the baskets beside Haymitch’s bench.  They are heaping with woolen cloth and tools, wooden implements and linen.  Other things as well that would be appreciated by any household.

I balk.  “This—this thing you are speaking of…  This is the game?  Everyone expects us to run off to dark corners to kiss?  And when they find us, they bring us before Haymitch to receive a prize?”  Am I understanding this correctly?

Katniss regards my bafflement with a solemn gaze.  “Yes.  They like this game.  And we must give gifts to our guests.”

“But…”  I have no words to express how odd this seems to me.  In my homeland, after the feasting and dancing, the newlyweds are escorted to their marriage bed so that they can enjoy being _alone_ together.  And yet here, people wish to chase us into shadows and interrupt our affections… then laud it to all?  _What?_

My wife – oh gods, Katniss is now my _wife_ – clarifies, “It is because we are impatient.  To be married and alone and...”  She shrugs helplessly.

“But…  Don’t they know that I share your bed every night?”  Katniss and I have had ample opportunity to be alone together.  Isn’t that common knowledge by now?

Katniss chews the inside of her cheek.

Oh.

I suppose it isn’t so commonly known after all.  “Is that so?” I continue, amused.  “Where do they think I sleep?”

“Um, in Haymitch’s room.”

I wipe my hand over my face in an attempt to keep the shock, horror, and humor from eking out.  It doesn’t help when Katniss snorts with mirth.  I chuckle nervously in reply.  Our gazes chance to meet and we both laugh out loud.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this, um, _game_ before?” I ask.

She sighs.  “I didn’t think…”  I wait patiently while she gathers her thoughts.  “Um, weddings are on the long summer day.  It has the most light.  You know the day?”

“The summer solstice?  The longest day of the year?”

“Yes.  All betrothed come together.  There is one festival, one wedding.  Many couples.  Um, people catch them when they kiss… and bring them to get a prize.  Um, I thought – it is only us, so they will not play that game.”  She looks up at me through her worry-pinched brows.  “I’m sorry.”

“No, no,” I reply swiftly, my mind racing.  I wonder why we are not waiting for the summer solstice for our wedding, but I think I know: King Everdeen will not live that long.  I summon a smile so that Katniss will not suspect where my thoughts had just gone.  “It’s all right.  Actually, this could be fun.”

She coughs out an indignant laugh.

I turn her in my arms.  “What would happen if I kissed you here, now, with everyone looking on?”

“The first to come to us and take us to Haymitch, uh, wins.”  She lifts her fingers to my lips to halt me before I lean in to test this assertion.  “No.  Alone and caught by _one_ is better.  Trust me.”

I take her word for it.

We wander through the yard, stopping at blazing firesides where meat is roasting for the night-meal.  I greet people and then, a few moments later, I bid them a friendly farewell.  I don’t try to follow the thread of the conversation.  If I’m going to survive this day without an aching head, I have to let it go.  I watch their faces and read Katniss instead… until a tap on my shoulder pulls my attention away.

“Chaff!” I greet, pleased to see him up.  His fever had broken the day before and he’d asked for Katniss and me.  I hadn’t expected that any more than I’d expected him to offer his allegiance, but he had.

“When the time comes and you are king, I will swear to you,” Katniss had translated, and then she had added softly, “Do not say no.”

Just like the men in Denmark, the Samish have their pride.  Excusing Chaff from this vow due to his missing hand would have been an unforgivable slight.

“Thank you,” I’d accepted and then added, “although, I would not ask a man to follow a fool.”

Katniss had laughed softly as she’d passed his words on to me: “You are a fool about your betrothed.  A man can do that.”  And then he’d winked.

Chaff accepts my offered hand clasp and nods toward the wrestling ring before making an inquiry.  I think he’s asking me if I’m planning on wrestling today.  I take a chance and answer in Samish, “Yes.  With Katniss.”  I think my wide grin speaks plainly.

He laughs.

Katniss pokes me in the side, scowling fiercely.

“No?” I ask, affecting the saddest face I can manage on the happiest day of my life.

“No.”  She tries to look stern, but I can see a chink in her armor.

I grin.  “No is… yes?”

“Maybe,” she allows.  Chaff guffaws.

People gleefully thrust their cups at us, but this time instead of pouring ale or wine for them, we are required to drink.  “Little by little,” Katniss advises me as she accepts a horn from Mason.  It is wise advice; the wine is very strong.

The first time Katniss giggles shocks a laugh from me.  I don’t even think about it before I’m leaning in for a kiss… and then we’re both being hauled before Haymitch like a pair of naughty children so that our captor can receive his choice of gift.

With that first incident out of the way, the dam breaks.  Not two minutes later, Katniss interrupts my halting conversation with Thom and kisses me soundly.  Being the closest and most motivated, Thom escorts us back up to the long table in the yard.

I take my turn next, pulling Katniss into my arms with a growl.  A pair of young children grab Katniss’ hand and claim their gifts.  Then Katniss, grinning at my uncontrollable chuckling, pushes me up against the fortress wall for a blissful moment before we’re inevitably interrupted by yet another gift-seeker.

It’s just gone mid afternoon when Haymitch shows off one empty basket and showily applauds us.  Katniss sticks her tongue out at him.  I have to grab my knees I’m laughing so hard at the pair of them.

I sense that I’ll be embarrassed later, but I can only smile and laugh as, time and time again, we’re brought up to Haymitch by yet another self-appointed chaperone.  As the festivities have only begun and everyone – aside from us – is cleverly pacing themselves with regards to drink, they keep a sharp eye out, coming between Katniss and me before we can get caught up in the moment, ensuring that our kisses are playful rather than desperate.

I look forward to the latter _later._

At one point, I trip over a rock – or perhaps my own toes – and end up pulling Katniss to the ground with me… where I proceed to settle her on my lap for a kiss.  Our catcher is tasked with helping us to our feet.

Immediately after we’re released from Haymitch’s presence, Katniss retaliates for my clumsiness by yanking me behind the outdoor kitchen.

I push her up against a post in the archery shed.

She pulls me close just inside the dining hall doors.

I bracket her in my arms against the back of her father’s chair.

Every time, we are apprehended: caught kissing and released blushing.

“What was Haymitch grumbling about?” I ask Katniss, massaging her waist as we meander unsteadily back to the celebrants.

She lifts her hands to her face and giggles _again._   The gods could not have made a more adorable drunken woman.  I am convinced of this.  “He said the gifts are few now.  We work very fast!”

I laugh until I wheeze.  If kissing Katniss is work, I will happily apply myself to this very career for the remainder of my days.  But then another thought occurs to me.  “And when the gifts are all gone?”

She grins widely.  “So are we!”

If I hadn’t been motivated to finish this game before, I certainly am now.

“Oh, no!” she objects, bracing her hands on my arms and pushing herself away from the wicked sparkle in my eyes.  “It’s not… late, um, night.  We must wait.”

“We _should_ wait,” I correct, stretching my fingers toward her hips, “but don’t say we _must.”_   I cannot wait that long.  Night is hours-days-years away.

She squeals and dances back a step.  “Peeta!  The night-meal!  Dinner first!”

“And then, um, wrestling?”  My grin feels charming, but for all I know it’s actually an unsettling leer.  Regardless, Katniss doesn’t seem to be bothered by it.  It’s hard to be bothered by much of anything after the amount of wine we’ve both had.  “Wrestling with you?”

“I do not wrestle.”  The look she gives me, wine-aided or no, is so heated it evaporates the moisture from my mouth.  “Haymitch says – do not play with my food.”

“I see,” I rasp.  “But I intend to savor _mine,_ huntress.”

She lifts her chin, accepting my challenge.  “After the night-meal, the games begin.”

“Hm,” I growl, leaning in and nuzzling her throat, tickling her with my beard and pressing breathy kisses to her dusty neck.

An enterprising young boy breaks our embrace this time and when Haymitch sends us back out into the crowd, he does so with an order to slow down – I’m not sure what his exact words had been, but his meaning is evident thanks to the pointed glance he gives the dwindling pile of gifts.  I’m too giddy to be ashamed as I endure the slow march of minutes until eventide, tormenting Katniss with brief touches and heated looks.

Katniss might not be inclined to play, but for me the game has already begun.


	46. Last Kiss

(Katniss)

 

Dancing has left me breathless.

Drinking has left me dizzy.

Kissing has left me giddy and hungry and restless and determined.

Dinner is both an obstacle and a delight.  With every glance I send in Peeta’s direction, he replies in kind.  His blue eyes simmer beneath his long, blond eyelashes and intently folded brow.  His lips shine invitingly in the torchlight, parted softly and ever-ready for our final kiss.

And now our shared cup is empty and our shared platter holds nothing but crumbs: the meal is done.  I clean my hands in a shallow bowl of water and stand up from my seat at the table, spinning away from Peeta.  The bench scrapes as he moves to follow me.  I turn and, still inching backward, hold up a hand to halt him.

He pauses, angles his chin, squints inquisitively.

I smile, arch my brows, and work my way toward the celebration laid out before us.  I do not want him to chase me.  No, but I do want him to _catch_ me.

“Oh, this is going to be good,” Haymitch predicts on a snide slur.

“One last gift?” I confirm.

He nods.

I spin away and scan the crowd for—  “Prim!”

My sister turns about smartly, her skirt flaring.  Her circle of friends watches my approach, but I only have eyes for my sister, her flushed cheeks and bright smile.  Even drunk, she is graceful.  A blossom in the night breeze.

“You finally remembered that you have a sister?” she teases, planting one hand on her hip.

“Of course not!” I scoff.  “I’m here for your cup.  Mine’s empty.”

“Ha!  And a good thing, too!  You’ve had enough!”  She quickly drains it, denying me a swift return to my earlier giddiness.

But that’s all right.  I can just tease her instead.  “Ha!  Says the little bell berry herself.”  Prim had earned herself the moniker from her very first adventure in the woods as a child, returning home with her fingers and lips stained with dark berry juice much to everyone’s amusement.

She harrumphs.  “I noticed you ate your share of _dumplings_ tonight… and Peeta’s, too!”

“I did not!”  Wait… had I?

“You absolutely did.  The poor man still looks hungry.”

I cough.  To be completely honest, I don’t think it’s his belly that is aching.  I won’t be telling my sister and her companions that, however.

“Well, maybe I did.  Come on.  Let’s dance.”

As a distraction, the mention of a dance is successful.  Prim gapes at me.  “You want to dance?  Now I know you’re drunk!”

“Oh, hush.  I’m trying to be a good sister for once.”

Prim hands her cup to a friend and allows me to pull her toward the cleared space in front of the long table.  I try to ignore Peeta’s stare.  He has resumed his seat, his elbows braced upon the table and hands folded in front of him.  Even with a swift glance, I can read him, his tense shoulders and soft smile.

A wave of heat undulates through me, riding my body made pliant from wine, but it is not the wine itself that causes my flush.  It is him: his promise for tonight and the memory of his reverent hands and awed gaze as I’d bared myself to him after the battle.

He’d told me he would take care of me.  He had.  And very soon he will again.

Prim digs in her heels, giggling, and I remember our dance.  Smiling, I spin around, reach for her other hand, and we twirl like we had when we’d been little, spinning gracelessly as mama and papa had danced at the summer festival.

“I’ve missed this,” Prim confides.

Sudden tears burn and scratch at the backs of my eyes.  I fight them and summon a smile.  Since our mother’s death, I’ve had few reasons to dance.  Fewer still since our father’s health had begun to fail the year before last.  I want to apologize for all the happy occasions I’d overlooked and wasted, but Prim doesn’t give me the chance.

“You know, I never believed you,” she suddenly announces with alcohol-aided candor.  “When I first saw Peeta with you, and you told me he was a friend.  I knew you were lying.”

“What?  But he was—”

“No.  You wanted him and he you.  It was so plain on your faces.”  Her grin widens.  “It’s all right, you know – to be happy with him.”

I gape at her.

“You are allowed to be happy,” my sister continues, stepping with purpose and beginning our dance in earnest.  “I just never thought I would see you happy with a man!”

Again, I say nothing.  This time, it is my throat that betrays me, hardening as if it is in the process of turning into thick leather.

“Peeta is very special, Katniss,” Prim acknowledges softly.

“I know,” I choke out.

“He really will do anything for you.  I believe that.  There’s nothing in the world that could separate him from you.”

I startle.  How had she known?  I’ve spoken to no one of my greatest fear.  I’ve barely allowed myself to think it.  I stare at my sister, begging for just one more reassurance, one reason for why Peeta would stay in my country with me for all time—

“He adores you,” Prim informs me.  “And after all you’ve done to protect us, after all your hard work and tireless sacrifice, you deserve this.”

“I—”  I don’t know what to say.  I glance over my shoulder toward Peeta, watching him as Prim and I turn with the music.  He is speaking to Mason and Mitchell now.  Haymitch is enjoying whatever they’re discussing if the sarcastic roll of his eyes is any indication.

I’m about to look away when Peeta glances over and I see it in his eyes – the affection Prim had spoken of – and it steals my breath.  After all I’ve taken from him, how can he look at me like this?  How can he give me everything he is?

Peeta is my husband.  Will there come a day when I will, finally, deserve him?

I don’t know, but I will not fail him.

“Posy!”  My sister’s shout jerks my attention back to our dance and I mirror Prim as she extends an arm to Gale’s little sister.  “Dance with us!”

I take Posy’s hand in mine and we spin, skip, bring our clasped hands together – bumping shoulders and elbows – and then leap back again.  I can only resist the pull of Peeta’s attention for so long and my gaze is inevitably drawn to the table.  Once, twice, three times… until Posy tugs on my hand.

“Go and kiss him!” she orders with all the exasperation her eight summers will allow.

I laugh.  “Only if you promise to catch us.”

“It’s a bargain,” she agrees brightly.

Prim gives my hand a squeeze.  “I’ll come help you with your bath.”

I nod.  My smile of gratitude feels shaky.  Why am I nervous?  I’ve been alone with Peeta before.  I’ve been completely bare in his presence.  There is no region of my body he has not visited with his touch, be it brief or lingering.  We have shared a bed for over a fortnight.  I have no cause to be anxious now except… Peeta has never looked at me quite like this, with his desire so openly displayed in his expression.  I realize that something has changed.  Had it been our vows?  Or my sign of trust in the washing room?  The confidence with which he’d worked to save Chaff’s life?  The battle itself – watching over me?

There is no way for me to know when this new side of him had begun to strengthen, transform from something apologetic to vindicated.  Regardless, it must have _started_ happening outside Harald’s fortress when Peeta had not only realized he’d wanted me, but had acted on it, had sought out Káto to make his request.  Peeta is not the kind of man to care for his own desires… or even his own needs.  His compassion for others had made him too soft in Denmark, a quiet shadow following in his brother’s wake.  But here, tonight, he is not soft or shadowy at all.  He has not lost his compassion, but now it is backed by a will of iron.

This is my husband.  This is the man who will be king.

I am so proud of him.

“Come on, Posy,” I say, still meeting Peeta’s gaze across the way.  “The last kiss is yours to catch.”

Prim squeezes my hand and then lets go.  Posy skips along at my side, giggling in anticipation.  I’m only just aware of the fact that Mitchell and Mason have stopped speaking and are watching my approach.  Peeta stands.  When my skirt brushes the edge of the table, I lean toward him, extend one hand toward his face, cup his beard-softened jaw, and guide our mouths into a final kiss.

His hands hold me to our course, sliding gently up to my jaw as his lips move with purpose against mine.  He exhales against my cheek and pets my lower lip once – briefly – with the tip of his tongue.  My fingers curl against his beard.  I open my mouth to answer his challenge—

_BANG!_

We jump apart and stare wide-eyed at Haymitch and the empty tankard he’d just slammed down on the table to gain our attention.  But no, not just ours: _everyone’s._

“Dumpling, if I have to endure any more lovey sweetness from the two of you, I’m going to be sick.”  He turns to Posy.  “Here’s your trinket, peapod, but next time make sure they’ve stopped kissing _before_ you bring ‘em up here.  Got it?”

She nods.

Haymitch straightens and waves his arms a bit wildly.  “Say goodnight, folks!  These two have things to do!”

The applause and whistles and cheers chase me toward Prim.  I try not to blush, but I know it’s a battle I can’t win.

“We’ll be ten minutes behind you, dumpling,” Haymitch calls out but, rather than encouraging me, it makes me pause.  I stop, look back over my shoulder at Peeta, and the look in his blue eyes—

I forget the crowd and stride over to him, not pausing until our lips are locked together again.  There is no reason for this kiss except that I want it and I want everyone to see it.  I want them to know that Peeta is mine and I’m going to keep him.

“I’ll see you soon,” I whisper against his smile.

He nods.

Our hands cling as I step away, our fingers clutch at each other’s briefly, then give in and slide apart.  I level a glare on Haymitch.  “Be nice to him.”

“Or else what, dumpling?”

“Or else I’ll put horse piss in your flask.”

The crowd roars with laughter at Haymitch’s utterly horrified expression.  He’s not even mocking me.  Hm.  So that’s what the face of pure terror looks like.

Prim latches onto my arm and hauls me toward the keep, giggling.  “Come on, Katniss.  He’ll behave.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” I mutter, but allow her to propel me forward.  It’s my wedding night and I don’t want to spend one more minute of it concerning myself with anything other than anticipation.  Peeta and I are the victors.  What had seemed so impossible two fortnights ago has been made real.  We have won.  Each other.


	47. Real

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING(?): Sensuality and sexual content 
> 
> If the battle gore in the previous chapters don't warrant an M-rating then I don't think this does, either. I mean, if teens can read about people hurting each other, then they ought to be able to read about people loving each other, too. 
> 
> /two cents

(Peeta)

 

Haymitch pounds obnoxiously on the door, earning himself a scowl from me and a few choice Samish curses from Katniss.  Prim answers the summons and I enjoy the scolding she gives the older man.  I don’t particularly care what she says or how she manages to steer the cantankerous drunkard down the hall.  All that matters is that they’ve both left me on the threshold of the bed chamber.  Katniss’ bed chamber.   _Our_ bed chamber.  This is our bed chamber and now everyone knows it.

Taking a deep breath, I duck inside and kick the door shut behind me.  Debate locking it.  I glance toward Katniss to ask what she prefers—

—and the sight of her seated on the bed wearing only her long shift brings me up short.  I’ve seen her dressed only in a shift before, but it seems different tonight.  Very different.  Inviting in a way that turns my blood around in my veins and confuses my thoughts.  For a moment, I forget how to walk.  I stand just inside the door, my gaze following the movements of her hand and arm as she pulls the wooden comb through her hair.

She looks up.  Time stops.

I remember to breathe.  It starts again.

Her smile of welcome spurs me onward.

“Here,” I say, holding out my hand for the implement and kicking off my shoes before dropping down behind her on the bed.  Haymitch had fetched a shift and a pair of trousers for me while I’d bathed.  It is cool inside the keep and my hair is still damp, but I suppose everyone expects that what keeps me warm tonight won’t be a tunic.

Katniss sighs as I work through her hair gently.  It’s very soothing, combing out her long tresses.

She clears her throat after a moment of silence that is a little too heavy to be considered companionable.  “Are you, um.  Do you feel too much wine?”

I chuckle.  “No.  The bucket of cold water Haymitch poured over my head cured me of the wine’s effects.”

“Cold water?”

“From a bucket,” I confirm.  “Reminded me of the time you doused me after my wrestling match with Káto.  Do you remember that?”

She exhales with delight.  “Yes.  I remember.”

There is something, some deeper tenor in her voice that goads me to ask how she remembers that day, “What do you remember?”

“You.  No shirt.  Dirty and, um, the water, um…”  Her shoulders tense as if she’s just said too much.

I dare, “Dripping wet?”  Does she remember it like _that?_

The glance she sends me over her shoulder is more of a reflex than a calculation.  “Um…”  Her attention roves up my arm, her eyes clouded with memory.

“So you _were_ watching.”  I’m surprised.  At the time, I’d been sure she’d considered our roughhousing beneath her notice.  But the look she’s giving me now—

I clench my jaw against the sudden flutter of awareness.

“Of course.”  Her admission is quiet but undefeated.  She trusts me with this, too.  “I watched you.  Every day.”

“I never caught you.”  I’m disappointed in myself.  All those weeks and months I’d wondered if she might find something appealing in me—

“You caught me.  Many times.”

“No,” I argue.  “I would have noticed.”  I’d been looking for it, hoping, aching, dreaming—

She snorts out a laugh and pulls herself around to face me so that her hands are on my knees and I cannot avoid her stare.  She exhales with a disingenuous sigh.  “It was this face,” she instructs me and promptly frowns, her eyes dark with a hint of passion that I’d always taken to be anger.

“That face?” I squeak.  “You were thinking naughty things about me while making that face?”

“Naughty?” she checks.  She doesn’t know the word.

“Naughty,” I confirm with a soft, low tone, a suggestive grin, and a waggle of my brows.

She sputters out a laugh and covers her eyes with one hand, turning her chin away.  “They were not naughty always,” she protests.

I take a chance and tease: “Yes, they were.”

She relinquishes that point with startling swiftness and argues another.  “But I didn’t _want_ to think them.”

Her revelations are making me feel bold.  I lean forward and nose my way through the silken fall of her dark hair to whisper in her ear: “Didn’t you?”

She twitches away from me.  “Peeta!”

“Hm?”  I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so shocked before.

“You do not say those things,” she accuses.  “You do not _think_ them.  You are drunk.”

I laugh.  “Only a little.”  Mostly, I am drunk on her, on her admission: she’d wanted me since my wrestling match with Káto.  Perhaps earlier.  If only I had _known…!_

But, no.  I’m glad I hadn’t.  The presence of her slave collar would have tormented me past the point of sanity.

Katniss evaluates me with a critical eye, judging my sobriety, and then deliberately places her palm on my left leg, right over a rope of malformed muscle.  “You forget your fear?”

“My fear?”

“If I see this…”  Her fingertips drum on the taut fabric of my trousers.

“No,” I answer.  “I have not feared your reaction to seeing my leg for a long time, Katniss.  I trust you.”

She blinks once.  Her fingers tighten upon my thigh.  Our gazes hold.  Our breaths get lost somewhere along the way to our mouths.

And then she is in my lap, her fingers delving greedily into my hair and her lips murmuring against mine.  Her words are an afterthought as she tastes my lower lip with a slow sweep of her tongue.

_“Show me.”_

I inhale sharply, drawing her closer without further hesitation and exhaling with reverence.  We fit, she and I.  We fit together effortlessly.  She reacts with a silent gasp, pulling back as if the heat from my body has scorched her right through our shifts.  Her mouth trembles a mere heartbeat away from mine.  Our gazes meet.  I have never seen her grey eyes so dark, the black centers so wide.  I’m falling into them – into her – at her silent invitation to venture within.

I angle my chin, slanting my mouth over hers and—

Yes, I _am_ within, tasting her deeper than I’ve dared before.  She pushes at me, pushes to move deeper into me as if she could sink right through my skin.  I push back, not because I am fighting her but because if we lose ourselves in each other this will not be real.

I need this to be real.

In the end, I must cradle her face in my hands – resisting the strength of her grip on my wrists – in order to calm our frantic kiss.  “Shh, Katniss,” I murmur against her swollen lips.  “Shh.  Slowly.”

A frustrated mewl grates in the back of her throat, igniting bursts of heat beneath my skin.  She has no idea what she does to me.  None whatsoever.

I join our lips together gently, sweetly, pulling back when she twists toward me with a fierceness I recognize from the battlefield, but I will not fight her tonight.  I give to her instead.  I give, but in maddening moderation for I fear she and I will burn each other to embers and ash if I do not hold us back.

It would be so easy to forget our vow from days earlier: children must wait.

Katniss abandons my wrists and I sigh happily when I feel her grasping fingers tugging at the hem of my shift.  I have no honest protest to her advances here.  My skin is too sensitive to bear the fabric a moment longer.  Our soft kisses shatter briefly as she pulls the garment over my head and then she’s diving for my throat, going for the jugular like the sleek predator she is.  I groan into her unleashed hair.

This is how Freyja’s husband had lost his mind and tumbled into madness.  I understand it so clearly now.  By the gods, no mouth should be as hot as hers, no teeth as teasing, no breath as thrilling.  Her hands own my bare skin, rough and seeking-what-I-do-not-know.  If my all is not enough for her—

“Peeta,” she murmurs, the syllables heated and moist, dipping into the notch between my collarbones.

I shudder.  My fingers curl, clench, and open in her hair as I press my cheek to the top of her head.  My answer is simple but total, “Katniss.”  I undulate helplessly against her hands as her palms map my back and shoulders.  She strings me taut, bending me like she would a bow.  I can feel her arrow poised against my heart.

It’s not until she draws the lobe of my ear between her lips and her fingers dance along the waist of my trousers that I force myself back together.  She destroys me so easily.

“No,” I protest, leaning away as I grip the bunched up fabric of her shift in my hands.  My knuckles brush her bare knees.  “Now you.”

When she does not protest but makes no move to raise her arms, I pause and consider the garment.  She breathes heavily and the fabric moves with each rise and fall of her chest, beckoning to me.  Lifting my right hand, I pinch the end of one tie between my forefinger and thumb, then tug the simple bow loose.  The neckline of the garment gapes.  Katniss shrugs a single shoulder and I slide the thin fabric aside.  The other shoulder, a second shrug.  A slow descent.  She pulls her arms free.  The shift sags down into a pile of fabric encircling her waist.  I press a hand to the center of her back, to her bare skin and shifting muscles.  So strong.  So contained.

How can I hold a woman like her?

I can’t.  She cannot be caged or caught, not truly.  I know this, so how is it possible that she is here in my arms at all?

Before I can unpuzzle this riddle, she shifts against me, closing the distance between us until our bare skin is touching, sliding, rubbing.  Overcome, I twist, cradling the back of her head as I lay her down on the furs, our embrace unbroken and clothing yet unshed.  For an instant, I nearly falter.  I hesitate to block her in and trap her.  I do not want to hold her down… but then she is the one holding onto me, holding me together.

I close my eyes and give in.  Our mouths meet, brush.  Lips wetted with unspoken promises.

The drumbeat within my chest echoes in hers when I press my ear to the soft skin over her heart.

I measure the length of her arms, the bend of her ribcage, and the crevasses and curves nearby and in between.

We nearly tear the shift bunched at her waist when she wiggles one way and I tug another, but we defeat it once we’ve taught ourselves how to work together.  And then I learn her.  From ankle to knee, my palm sliding over warm skin and unyielding muscle, petting the silky down which softens her disciplined body to the touch.  My wife is no lady; she is a warrior.

She is mine.

I close my eyes, breath shortened by the thought.  My heart bursts with every beat at the soft scrape of her fingernails over my shoulders and down my back.  My fingers dip behind her knees before tracing circles up to her hips. 

“May I?”  My whisper meets the arch of her neck.

She answers by threading her fingers between mine and she teaches me.  She teaches me our differences and our similarities.  She blossoms in response to my tentative touches and encouraging whispers.  Her trust accepts my love and she shudders with it, gasping into my hair and mouthing nonsense against my jaw.  She falls apart for me and then permits my arms to wind around her, gathering up her trembling pieces and forming her once again, more perfect yet twice as beautifully flawed as before.

Reclining against the furs, our bodies pressed together, our breaths shared and fingers entwined, I suddenly understand how this could be real.  The answer is simple but unbelievable:

Katniss submits to my love because I set her free.


	48. Curiosity and Desire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING(?): More sensuality of the wedding night kind.

(Katniss)

 

I think I could grow to need this.  Him.  His touch.  It had not been as necessary as my next breath before tonight, but now… now I think it is.  It is terrifying.  I shudder helplessly in reaction, my toes tingling and mouth dry from so many heaving breaths, but I cannot bring myself to pull away.  How can I when he is as affected as I?

“Are you all right?”  His murmur is uneven, breathless, and strained.

I have no voice, but I manage to nod.  I think I’m all right.  Peeta certainly hadn’t hurt me, but I am unsure _what_ that had been.  An ocean storm, but hot.  A crack of thunder, but enduring.  An inconceivable distance traveled, but without having ever left our bed.

Fortunately, I do not have to contemplate it now.

Now it is _my_ turn to learn _him._

I roll toward Peeta, pressing against his chest relentlessly until he lies upon his back and I seat myself upon his lap.  Beneath my thighs, the fabric of his trousers chafes my skin.  He must be in torment.  When I reach for the drawstring around his waist, he does not try to stop me.

This is new to me, this part of him, and I run my palms over the fabric, imagining what I will find when he is free of it.  His back arches.  His capable hands fist in the furs.  He mouths my name.  He is so strong, powerful enough to wield lighting itself in his bare hands, and yet he gives me the one thing I have been denied all my life: control.

From the moment he’d offered up the rope and his bared wrists to me, I’d been doomed, cursed, captivated.  He is not weak for giving himself into my keeping; he is stronger than anyone I have ever known.  I cannot resist his unending faith in me.  I will never stop striving to be worthy of it.

My hands burrow behind his waist and he accommodatingly lifts his hips.  His fingers join mine as I ease the cloth over his heated skin.  I try not to look, but I do.  I try not to stare, but I do that as well.  I have seen nudity before, but this is Peeta.

Peeta.  My husband.  In our bed.  Submitting to my curiosity and desire.

This is Peeta.

I look up, brace myself upon my arms, and lean over him, forgetting the unfinished task of peeling his clothes from his thick legs.  His eyes draw me closer… closer… until I press my lips to his.  His arms slide around my waist and he shifts as if he is about to roll me beneath him again, but then he pauses before flopping back onto the bed with a huff of chagrin.  I smile.

“Yes.  I have caught you,” I remind him playfully, tweaking the bunched fabric around his thighs.  His response is simple and eloquent: his hands rove, reminding me that he is not the only one who is caught.

One kiss becomes two and then three until he squirms impatiently against the furs and every point of contact between us ignites.  “You promised not to torment me.”

I had.  I kiss him once more and then I sit back, resuming my efforts to unbind him from the linen trousers.  A moment later, I’m kneeling at the foot of the bed as the clothing falls to the floor.

I’m inexplicably drawn to his feet.  My hands quest forth – first the right and then the left – to trace the veins standing so prominently against firm muscle and taut tendons.  No matter how far or how fast I run, my feet will never look like this, unapologetically lean, broad, and serviceable.  A woman’s foot could never manage such a shape.  My feet will always be more slender and soft and graceful.  Just from a glimpse, no one would believe that I am a fighter and my husband a healer’s son.

“Well.  This is unexpected,” Peeta observes with a chuckle, propping himself up on his elbows to oversee my contemplation which has moved up to his ankles.

“We are different here as well,” I offer, sliding one of my feet up toward his knee so that he can see with his own eyes what I mean.  He reaches down and brushes his fingertips over the skin as if searching for the very veins which create ridges in his.

Before he can offer a distracting or contrary comment, I slide a hand up over his left ankle, tracing the still-fading lines of scars.  In some places, his skin is nearly flush against his bone, puckered and stretched.  In others, his muscles bulge from years of compensation.  Peeta could have used a crutch or a staff to spare himself this almost monstrous, unnatural-looking limb, but I love him even more for fact that he hadn’t.

I push his right leg aside to make room upon the bed between his knees so that I can run both palms along each, measuring and weighing and marveling.  My fingertips dip and skitter along the scars on his left while I encounter only smooth swells of taut flesh upon the right.  In the end, as I caress the tops of his pale thighs, one curving sensually and the other bunched and slightly twisted beneath the skin, I cannot decide which I prefer, so I tell him, our noses nearly touching—

“I like both.”

Peeta throws back his head and laughs.

“What?” I retort, tucking my chin down.  I am not embarrassed or offended, but I want to know what he finds so amusing.

He curls his warm fingers around the back of my neck.  “Only you, Katniss, could ever look at me and not find me lacking.”

“That is because you are enough.”  I’ve been telling him this for weeks.  Has he not been listening?  I scowl.  “You do not believe me.”

His expression crumbles into a look of such adoration that I cannot breathe.  I cannot think.  “But I do.”

I’ve never seen him look so…  I don’t have the words, not even in my own language.  His lips tremble.  His chin tilts.  His eyes beseech and brows bow.  I lay a hand on his shoulder and press the other to the flesh over his heart.  I think I know what he doesn’t say: I could break him.  After everything he has endured in his life, I am the one who could do the unthinkable.

I must protect him.  Even from myself if necessary.

It hadn’t been until I’d clasped hands with a former slave boy in Denmark that I’d realized how very much I loathed my responsibilities at home.  I owe my people my every effort – every tear, every drop of blood and rivulet of sweat.  They own me and I serve them.  In Denmark, I had been free of that.  With Káto’s family, they’d never asked for more than a full day’s work and a civil disposition.  Life had been so simple.

But even if Gale had not found me, life would not have remained simple for long.  I would have married Peeta and he still would have given me all of himself to shelter and cherish.  I would still feel the weight of this responsibility, only… it does not burden me like I would have expected.

I am… anchored.

Honored.

I whisper his name against his lips.  He waits for me to close the distance between us.  He waits for me to choose him.

My kisses are slow and soft now.  My touch is gentle and lingering.  I want him to feel what I feel.  I want to banish doubt from our bed, our hearts, our very breath.  My hands map their way over muscled arms and down the taut skin spanning his hard belly.  My only curiosity now is discovering which touches will make his fingers curl into the furs.

He returns every kiss with eyes closed.  He echoes every touch with a gentle stroke against my hair, pushing it back over my shoulder when it tumbles into the way or petting it along the length of my spine.  He sucks in a breath when I venture on, still uninstructed and unguided, to chart what I have not yet touched.

I lean my head against his as he presses his forehead to my shoulder.  I can feel his breaths – hot and damp – puff against my chest, over my heart.  “Katniss,” he praises, pleads, pants.

“Do you, um…  Pain?”

He rolls his head back and forth, brushing his nose against my collarbone, but one of his large, strong hands joins mine between us.  In an instant, our embrace becomes another kind of dance.  His hand presses mine, flush and warm, against his smooth, burning skin.  His breath catches, shudders.  His lips rediscover the line of my neck and his beard tickles, warms, delights.

Even now, his pleasure is not complete without mine.

“I want to hear your words,” he murmurs against my skin.  “Tell me, Katniss.”

I try.  I don’t have enough words in his language to describe what this feels like, being with him like this, touching him like this.  Sometimes I slide into my native tongue but even then the words are not adequate.  I punctuate them with kisses and exhalations.  Illustrate with caresses and soft tugs upon his golden hair until he tilts his head into my hand, nuzzling my palm.

And when I press him back until his shoulders hit the furs, he stretches out beneath me so trustingly that despite the lateness of the hour and my own exhaustion, I have never felt more alive.  He reaches for me and draws me flush against him, gasping against my neck, and I have never felt more beautiful, more powerful, more humbled.

An instinct as ageless as the one that had guided me beneath his touch rides him to exhaustion beneath mine.  I drop my head to his chest and smile.  His shaky fingers ghost through my unbound but undoubtedly snarled hair.  I kiss the overheated, sweat-dewed skin beneath my mouth.  He murmurs softly against the crown of my head.  A shift somehow finds its way into his clumsy hand and I allow him to clean us both up.

“I should say something,” he muses sleepily.  “I’ve wanted you – this – for so long.  I…”

I reach up blindly and brush my fingertips over his lips.  “Say something in the morning,” I advise.

He chuckles.  “I will do that.  I will most definitely do that.”

Reaching back, I grab a quilt and throw it over both of us.  I then stretch my arm across his belly and resolve not to move until morning.


	49. Encounters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry updates have been slowing down a bit. I'm currently mucking my way through a messy bit and that's taking more time than the earlier chapters had to write.
> 
> WARNING(?): More sensuality. Some inference to sexytiems. (Maybe I should just give up and slap and M rating on this thing. These two can't keep their hands off of each other. Argh.)

(Katniss)

 

I wake to a sudden change in air pressure: someone has opened the door.  I keep my eyes shut and my shoulders relaxed.  I’d draped myself over Peeta sometime in the night and I am between him and the intruder.  I do not have a weapon, but my fingers are curled loosely around the edge of a fur quilt.  It will suffice as a distraction if needed.  I slowly tighten my grip and prepare to throw it in the trespasser’s face.

A footstep.

The brush of cloth against something – a sleeve briefly meeting the wall, perhaps.

The sound of an object – too soft to be wholly solid – being set down.

Another step, away this time.

The door closes with a soft _thump._

I dare to lift one eyelid enough to confirm: yes, we are alone again.  We are alone and there is a covered basket beside the door.

Beneath me, Peeta sighs.  When had he woken?

“I didn’t lock it last night,” he explains, sliding his hands up my bare back.

I scowl at him.  He smiles softly and begins tucking wayward strands of hair behind my ears and smoothing them back from my brow.

“Good morning?” he offers.

My scowl doesn’t lift.

“Katniss,” he intones quietly, “do you really still fear for my safety?”

“Always,” I retort.  I am responsible for his wellbeing.  That will never change.

He sighs and rolls up onto his elbow.  My eyes drift shut as he presses a kiss to the top of my head.  “I’ll comb your hair?”

My brows twitch in question.

He gives me a bashful grin.  “It’s calming.  I like doing it.”

“All right,” I relent with a bemused smile.

I do not suspect his ulterior motives until he begins pressing slow kisses to my bare arm, moving up over my shoulder and breathing deeply against my neck.  My hair has been combed to perfection by that time and I ought to braid it, but Peeta intervenes, laying me down again and fitting himself into my embrace.

My landscape has not changed since the night before, but he insists on studying it again, more daringly this time with fingers splayed wide, marking his path with open-mouthed kisses.  There’s little I can do aside from hold on to him and whisper his name.  He shudders in reply to every quiet exhalation, every soft hum of approval or gasp of surprise, like when he mouths my name against my belly and his hands cup my knees before moving greedily northward.

This time, his touch does not confuse or confound me.  My body has spent the night considering the new sensations he’d given me and it aches to feel them again.

“Ah, Katniss,” he groans softly when I meet him with helpless abandon, giving myself over, trusting his hands to undo me and then pull me back together.

His heated skin is my only reality as his ministrations overwhelm me, build the hot storm once again until an unstoppable tide crashes through me, one wave followed by another.  When his lips find mine, I realize I’ve been murmuring his name over and over, chanting without breath.

With that kiss, I awaken to an awareness of him, of his need and the mindless urgency of it pressed against my hip.  I reach for him.

A caress from my fingertips – his whimper against my throat – a firmer touch – a roll of his hips and the sound of my name in a tone that begs for more – his breath hot against my throat and my fingers curling into his mussed hair – a hitching breath – I breathe his name, encourage him – _“Trust me”_ – and he is wrapped around me completely, holding on as if his pleasure might tear him away, nipping at my ear and making me gasp along with him until he exhales my name one last time on a pleading rush.

The same tide that took me undulates through him, wringing his powerful body out until he slumps against me, only his chest stirring as he works to catch his breath.

Long, speechless moments later, his fingertips sketch aimlessly over my hip, then my thigh, and then—

“Again?” I gasp.

“Again,” he growls, daring to delve deeper than before after secrets yet to be discovered.  He finds them.  His blue eyes burn – his gaze so hot it sears everything in its path – and I clutch at his arms, uncaring of whatever mess we’ve made of each other.  I arch.  I close my eyes.  I lose myself in each caress.

His beard rasping against my tender skin…

His mouth delivering suckling kisses…

His hand moving, rocking, seeking—

“Peeta!”

And then I am falling away from this place and into myself – into _us_ – and if I don’t grit my teeth I might scream.  In the end, I do anyway for he is persistent in chasing after my pleasure.  Is this pleasure?  It is so intense I cannot call it pleasing, but it is not pain.  It is necessary.  I need this.  I need him.  I will never _not_ need him.

“So beautiful,” he approves, brushing soft kisses over my trembling eyelids and flushed cheeks.  My skin tingles.  My body quakes.  I feel as if I’ll never be able to stand without swaying again.

A small sound escapes me as his hand slides away to pet the soft skin of my inner thigh.  Perhaps he means it as a gesture of comfort.  If so, it does not have the desired effect.  I shimmer with heat beneath his palm.

“No more,” I gasp, fumbling for his wrist and stilling his movements.  “A reprieve,” I beg.

He stills.  Even his shallow breaths halt.  “Did I hurt you?”

It is only then, when I hear his concern that I realize I’d spoken in my first language rather than his.  “No, but… wait.  Wait.  I must… rest.”

He chuckles with relief and some dark satisfaction that I would like to explore.  “Then you know how I feel every time you touch me,” he confides in a low, rumbling tone.

Do I destroy him so effortlessly?

“Do not apologize,” he adds, leaning back and giving me a stern look which melts into one of profound satisfaction and then into a knowing grin.  A length of bath linen finds its way into his hand and he carefully clears the mess from our softly thrumming skin.  His thoughtfulness seduces me all over again and despite my plea for respite, I tilt my chin up and kiss him.

As our lips come together – brush, nibble, and tug – my stomach interrupts grumpily and Peeta laughs.  “I suppose we must feed you.”

I bite my lip in apology but he only smiles, holds up a hand to halt my attempt to stand, and makes his way over to the door unabashedly naked to collect our meal.  He sets it in front of me and slides onto the bed beside me, dangling his left leg over the edge to keep it from cramping.

The contents of the basket confirm my niggling suspicion: our visitor this morning had been Prim.  I know this because of the decorative leaf she’d pressed into the top of each small goat cheese in the basket.  Our mother had done this for us when we’d been little: made our meals pretty by using the harmless foliage our father had gathered when out hunting or trekking in the woods.

Speaking of which…

“Peeta?”

“Hm?”

I smile, my gaze moving over his bare chest and arms.  “Come to the forest with me.”

“Today?”

“Now,” I propose.

He grins widely and pushes himself to his feet again, searching the wooden floor for his trousers.  I lean over the end of the bed and scoop them up.  Unsurprisingly, when I twist around to offer them to him, he’s making no secret of the fact that he’s enjoying the view.

Accepting the garment, he offers me his hand and pulls me up onto my knees among the furs.  “Thank you,” he purrs into my ear.  His beard tickles.  The tips of my fingertips press against his belly.  Our lips meet as if by previous arrangement in a simple kiss.

We bathe quickly.  I loosely braid my hair and dress in a long shift and my plainest gown – it takes less time than bothering with leg wrappings and my stomach is hollow.  I want Peeta and this basket out in the forest before I move past hungry and become irritably ravenous.

I’m expecting a fair amount of teasing from the people we’ll encounter on our way this morning, perhaps some suggestive smiles, or the occasional arched brow as we make our way through the keep.  We’d certainly made drunken fools of ourselves the day before, so I can’t say we don’t deserve it.  What I do not expect, however, is to nearly plow into a familiar figure as he steps out of my father’s rooms.

“Gale!”  I put out a hand to steady him although I’d stumbled more than he had – I’d practically bounced off of the great bear.  “How is your back?”

“Serviceable,” he admits neutrally, looking past my shoulder toward Peeta and then taking in the basket in his grasp.  Gale’s jaw flexes and his eyes ice over.

I clear my throat.  “I didn’t see you yesterday,” I realize abruptly.  Hearing my own words, I tense in anticipation of Gale’s quick anger.

He flashes an indulgent smile at me instead.  “Someone has to man the watchtowers.”

“Um.  Yes.”  That is true, and I can understand why he might feel obligated to take on the responsibility so soon and set an example for all future volunteers, but… I would have thought he’d make an effort to attend my wedding.  We are friends, he and I.  Or… we _had been._

The sudden silence stretches his smile taut.  “Congratulations,” he eventually bites out.

“Thank you.”  Is there nothing else for us to say to one another except these banal pleasantries?

He focuses over my shoulder again.  Nods.  “Peeta.”

“Gale.”

And then I watch as my comrade and friend stalks down the corridor.  His limp is almost imperceptible.

A long moment passes.  I startle when Peeta’s fingers brush my elbow.  “Do you still want to go to the woods today?”

“Yes.”  I do.  But, as we walk, I consider the fact that before this morning’s encounter I had not seen Gale for some time.  He’d been noticeably absent from not only the wedding festivities, but also the dining hall days before, when the room had been filled to bursting with people, hands raised in silent salute to Peeta’s skill and bravery and compassion.  I cannot recall seeing Gale there or at any time between the evening after the battle and this morning.  He could not have been spending all those days manning the watchtowers… could he?

“You are thinking.  I can hear it,” Peeta accuses me as we pass the last paddock fencepost on our way out to the forest.

I realize he’s holding my hand and I give his fingers a squeeze.  “Yes, I was.  But I am finished now.”

He chuckles.  I don’t think he believes me, but in the face of his bright smile I can’t bring myself to care.  I won’t allow myself to dwell on Gale’s disappointment and stubborn hostility.  He is not ready to be reasonable and I’m not going to waste a moment more trying to untangle Gale’s knotted ego.

“This way,” I inform Peeta, suddenly deciding on the specifics of our destination.  He takes the change of course in stride as I lead him out of the valley and into the woods.  Upon a hill overlooking a bend in the river, I spot the ancient, twin trees that my father had shown me years ago.

“When you can stand on the roots shared between them and touch each trunk with your fingers – at the same time, wildcat! – then I will teach you how to shoot a bow and arrow.  Not a day before.”

My lips are stretched into a wide smile as I clamor up onto the cradle formed by the shared roots and then turn, spreading my arms and flattening my palms to the neighboring trunks.

I glance down at Peeta’s upturned face and find his smile mirroring mine.  “This place holds good memories for you?” he guesses and I nod.

I remember that moment of triumph when I’d at long last managed to span the space between these two trunks.  In fact, I’d hauled my father out here, insisting I could do it.  Looking back on that day, I think I understand his reluctance to come here: he hadn’t been ready for me to grow up.

My smile fades as I look from one flattened palm to the other.  I have grown up.  Why had I thought it would be such a monumental achievement?  It would have happened inevitably.

With a soft sigh, I drop my hands.  They find their way to Peeta’s shoulders and his settle upon my hips.  I can’t think of any words to say, but he doesn’t seem to mind.  When I lean forward, he helps me down and then guides me to sit back against one towering twin.  He then seats himself against the other and we share the basket between us.

“You are very quiet,” I accuse him once I’ve slowed my eating enough to care whether or not I’ve smeared cheese on my knuckles or fruit paste between my fingers.  Peeta watches me intently as I lick the pad of my thumb.

“I’ve a lot to say.  Too much,” he replies in a tone that trembles from the weight of heavy thoughts.

Although I am no bard or great giver of speeches, I dare to suggest, “Begin from the beginning?”

Peeta shakes his head.  “That would take a very long time.”

I frown.  What he wishes to say is not worth the time it might take to say it?

He reaches for my hand and draws around the edges of my fingers with a single digit.  I shiver.  He smiles, “And I think you would prefer that I skip ahead to the conclusion.”

I turn my hand in his, curl my fingers around his wrist, and tug.  He ventures away from his perch, approaching mine with stealth I would not have expected from him.  I lean back as he leans over.  He presses my palm to his tunic directly over his heart.

“This – all of this – belongs to you.”

My fingers curl a little, digging into the fabric beneath my hand.  His smile widens and his right knee settles between both of mine.  I glance down, wondering if he is—

“Yes, that, too,” he promises as if reading my thoughts.

I grin, glancing up into his eyes.  “You said this before – you are mine.”

“And it is truer today than it was yesterday,” he answers, “because I have more to give you now than I did then.”

I have nothing to offer in response to his beautiful words, his gently curving lips, his bright blue eyes, so I take instead.  My fingers curl and clutch in his tunic as I lift my mouth up to his.  His lips part at the first touch of my tongue and I am not gentle in my conquest.  He exhales, a soft noise of both surrender and awakening vibrating deep in his chest.  In the next instant, I’m pressed firmly against the tree and my hands are grasping his hips as he cradles my head in his hands, angling for the greatest ease of contact.

“Katniss,” he pants, rocking his mouth against my greedy lips.  “Gods.  You devour me.”

Actually, that would be the very next venture I’m keen to undertake.  What I’ve tasted of him thus far – his lips and tongue, his skin: throat, shoulders and chest, hands and fingertips – has been very agreeable.  I wonder…

As he traps my tongue between his lips, I flatten my palms low on his belly, the heel of my hands brushing the crease of his thighs.  He startles and I lift my lashes just enough to watch his eyes open.  I’d never thought blue could be the color of desire, but it is.  I tuck my chin down and tilt my mouth against his spasming throat.  A choked noise answers the wet kiss I place over his Adam’s apple.  My fingertips delve beneath the hem of his tunic and catch in the laces of his trousers and then—

A blast echoes through the forest.

We stop, stare, frown as our fogged minds try to puzzle it out.

It is not thunder.  There is not a cloud in the sky.

It comes again and that’s when I stiffen in realization: it is the sound of the horn.

Haymitch is calling everyone into the fortress, which can only mean one thing: another ship has reached our shores.

 


	50. Hostility and Hospitality

(Katniss)

 

“Katniss, please, don’t—”

I squeeze my eyes shut and sling the quiver over my shoulder.  “I must,” I insist.  “If your brother is here, I must.”

“And if it’s not him?”

With a silent sigh, I turn and lift my hands to Peeta’s face, wishing I could press my own calm into his skin and, wherever it meets his anxiety, the latter would crumble to dust and ashes.  “I will make care.”

“Take care,” he corrects absently as he visibly searches for words.  “You can’t—  I can’t do this—  I need you—”

“And I need you.”  I stare into his eyes.  I don’t have much time.  It had taken several minutes – time we really hadn’t been able to afford to begin with – for me to change into a tunic and leg wrappings even with Peeta standing by holding the garments for me and passing me my weapons one-by-one.  The horses will be ready and waiting by now, the archers stationed along the wall and the gatekeepers standing by, the fortress’ forces assembled in the bailey and Haymitch pacing-scowling-muttering.  I have to go and— “I need you to stay here.”

“I can ride,” he whispers persuasively.

“I know you can.”  But if the visitors are hostile and I must escape from spears or arrows – if I must push my mount to the limits of his speed or test his agility as we weave between trees – Peeta will not be able to follow on his own horse.  He’ll not be able to both keep pace and stay astride, not with that left leg of his.  I could have him ride with me, but that would slow us both down.  There really is no other option.  He has to stay behind.

He sees this inevitability, so he doesn’t argue the point; he knows as well as I do what the risks are.

“Send someone else.”

It is a ridiculous notion borne of desperation.  And, from the wince which squeezes his features in the wake of the words, Peeta realizes that as well.

I’m only echoing both our thoughts when I say, “No other speaks your language.”

“I know.”  His jaw clenches and the soft hairs of his beard ripple in the sunlight.  “I don’t like this.  I hate it.  What if you have to fight again?”

“We will bring the battle to the village.  You will be on the wall.  With spears.  It will be all right.”  I trust him to watch my back even from that distance.  I trust him as I would trust Gale or Boggs or Thresh or any of the others standing right beside me.  Peeta is a force to be reckoned with.

He shakes his head.

I continue, “I will return.”

“You cannot make that promise, just as I cannot promise to be able to help you in battle.  I could fail this time and—”

“You will not fail,” I argue.

“How do you know?  Do you see the future?”

“Yes.  I see us.  Together.  Always.”  I link my fingers behind his neck and pull him close for a kiss.  I think I surprise him by how softly I press my lips to his, how gently I move against him, how delicately I paint his mouth with my tongue.  When I ease away, his irritation is but a memory.  Worry still clouds his eyes, but his smile is brave.  He trusts me.  I step back and he lets me go.  He holds out my final weapon to me, passing the bow into my grasp and then curling my fingers tightly around it with the guidance of his rough, warm hands.

“Shoot straight.”

I nod, brush my thumb over his lower lip, and hurry from the bed chamber.

“Took you long enough, dumpling,” Haymitch growls the moment I burst from the keep.  “For future reference, the whole country does not kick back and take a nap whenever you decide to have yourself a quickie.”

I haul myself into the saddle of the horse Mitchell is holding for me.  “I’m shooting you when I get back,” I inform my so-called mentor.  Mentor.  Hah.  More like _tormentor._

“Yeah, yeah.”  Haymitch waves off my threat with a roll of his eyes.  “I’ve heard that before.”

I blink.  Had I—?  Oh.  I had.  I stare at him and he looks back up at me, the same thoughts reflecting in our eyes: I’d said that to him as I’d shouldered my way out the door, intent on joining the battle against the Northmen raiding our village.  I’d never made good on the threat, of course; I’d been captured.

Haymitch clears his throat.  “Uh, let’s not establish a pattern here,” he mutters awkwardly.

The scuff of boot leather at the entrance: Peeta lurches to a halt in the doorway, still tugging on the knot in his best belt.  His gaze lands on me and doesn’t waver.

“For buttercream’s sake,” Haymitch mutters, but he does not fool me.  My mentor may not be a superstitious man, but he won’t tempt fate by undercutting my luck even in jest.

“Get Peeta some spears,” I harass him.  Just in case the gods have heard our conversation and decide to force our hand yet again, I will need Peeta to be ready.

My gaze moves over him one last time.  He’s wearing the tunic Prim and I had altered for him.  The white fur at his neck acts as a tunic collar.  I’d removed the cape portion but gotten no further in repairing the damage done to the wool when he’d used it to staunch the flow of blood from Chaff’s arm.  I’ll need Prim’s help with cleaning and perhaps dying the fabric so that it is not so gory.  Blood stains, while dramatic, are not particularly appetizing at the dinner table.

I resolve to finish that project when I get back.

“And lace up his bracers!” I command, giving my horse a kick before I surrender to temptation and slide back off the saddle, stumble up the steps, and throw my arms around my husband.  If I let him, he’ll tuck me up against his broad chest and never let me go.

But I must go.

So I do.

The six of us turn our mounts toward the fortress gate.  A call goes up to make way.  We burst out upon the road at a full gallop.

I don’t listen for the sound of the bars locking into place upon the closed gate.  I do not look back over my shoulder at the fortress wall.  I focus on the pounding hooves of my mount, on the rattle of the arrows in their sheath against my back, the feel of the ax head pressing against my hip and the handle of the hunting knife poking into my side.  I am well armed.  I am ready this time.  We are ready.

I am lying to myself.

My fingers tighten on the reins.

I am not ready to face Káto if that is who has pulled up on our shores, but I cannot leave him there to fend off whatever attack Alma will muster.  I must face him, forge the allegiance I’ve already promised my people, stop him from taking his brother back home.

I will not let Peeta go without a fight.

And that is the true reason why Peeta must remain at the fortress.  Would his brother give him a choice if they were to encounter each other out here in the forest?  Gale hadn’t given me one.  Something tells me Káto wouldn’t, either.

We ride hard and make good time.  From horn blast to saddle, a ship might have drawn near enough to drop anchor but hopefully no more.

The six of us halt on the crest of the hill which overlooks the river delta.  A demon-prowed ship has crept up on the shore.  Nearly two dozen men and women crowd the rocky beach, their trousers wet and axes in hand.  I scan their faces as they look up and I hope I do not know them.  If they are strangers, that would make things so simple.  Dangerous, but simple nonetheless.

Unfortunately, they are not strangers.

“Katniss!”

On either side of me, my comrades tense.  Gale’s fingers curl tighter around the spear in his grasp.

One Northman steps forward from the crowd, his gaze on me, and I acknowledge his incredulous shout of recognition.  “Káto.”

For a long moment, we only stare at each other.  The moment lengthens, hardens, endures, lasts until a man who I think is called Finnr shifts restlessly, leaning toward Káto with the intent to speak.

I quickly cough up some words.  “I welcome you, friends.”

Káto gives me a long, piercing look.  Even from this distance, I can see the distrust in his eyes.  “Are we friends, Katniss?  Can I be friends with the people who took my brother?”

“That is your decision,” I allow, wishing I had Peeta’s gift with words.  And then there is the guilt; I hadn’t meant to betray Káto.  He and his wife had treated me better than I could have imagined, and how had I repaid their hospitality?  By stealing Peeta away from them.

But I may very well have also saved Peeta’s life.  Would Gale have really left him tied to a tree, living to tell the tale of my escape?  Would Peeta have let Gale take me without a fight?  I don’t believe so.

Now it is my turn to repay the favor.

Seeing these fierce men and women standing shoulder-to-shoulder upon our beach, I know I’d been right to leave him at the fort.  I know that stubborn tilt of one’s chin, the squint of one’s eyes.  If Peeta had been here with me, they would have attacked, fought us for him, and sailed off no matter what Peeta might have had to say on the matter.

Well, there’s no point in pretending I don’t know why they’re here.  I freely offer, “Peeta wants to see you, I think.  If you come with us, you can speak to him.”

“So he is alive?”

I hold onto my temper with both hands.  “Yes.  Alive and well.”

Káto demands, “Then bring him here.”

That is not a possibility.  “He is at the fortress.  I will take you there.  You will be safe.  I promise.”

Káto does not trust me.  “We’ll wait here.”

“Return to your ship.  This place is not safe.”  Alma’s men will find them; the sound of the horn echoes out past the horizon so it is only a matter of time before Cray leads a team of men to investigate and then reports back to his father.  After that, I have no doubt that a battle will ensue.  Káto’s warriors will be outnumbered.  Twenty cannot prevail against dozens or even hundreds.  I cannot allow Peeta’s brother and friends to die when it is within my power to prevent it.

I scan the ranks of Káto’s fellow voyagers and recognize Már.  There is a woman who looks to be Kolfrosta at first glance but is not.  Most of the others I have seen at Trelleborg.  Peeta likely knows each and every one of them.  I am not surprised by these volunteers; Peeta has more friends than he dares to count.

His brother raises his voice again.  “Tell us what you want for him.”

I scowl.  I know the words he uses, but the meaning eludes me.  “What?”

“What is the ransom?”

_Ransom?_

“I will pay my brother’s weight in silver if he is still alive.”

Káto is trying to buy his brother.  As if purchasing a _slave._   It is all I can do not to reach for my arrows.  I lean forward in the saddle so suddenly that my horse prances forward two steps before I force myself to relax.

“What is his price?” Káto demands.

I snarl back, “He is _not for sale!”_

This makes the Northmen pause.  Már exchanges a look with Finnr, their brows arched with surprise.

I take a deep breath.  I am wretched at this.  Wretched and out of patience.  “Do you come with us or return to your ship?” I bark.

Káto finally seems to understand that he is only being permitted two options.  “Does the offer of safe passage still stand?” he inquires consideringly.

“Yes.”

“And what is your word worth here?” he challenges.

I lift my chin.  Glare.  Grind my teeth.

“What did he say?” Gale grits out, his patience worn as thin as mine.  His healing wound probably aches terribly.  I wish Chaff could be here with us, but I am conversely glad that he’s inside the timber walls with Peeta.

I translate, “He wants to know if my oath is of any value.”

Gale grunts, washing his hands of the entire encounter.  “Let’s leave them.  Damn Harald.  We don’t need his friendship or his people tromping on our land.”

Rather than answer him, I call out to Káto, “Hold up your shield.”  Perhaps, where hospitality has failed, hostility will prevail.

Without glancing at his comrades, he does, his smirk daring me to take my best shot.

I do.

Fletch—

Nock—

Aim—

_Fire!_

Before anyone can react, the arrowhead lodges into the very center of the wooden shield’s ring of iron bolts.  The sound of the impact ripples through the crow of Northmen.  They draw their axes and heft their shields.  I ignore their posturing and focus on Káto.  He glances down at the arrow and then takes a closer look, calculating my accuracy.

“I ask you a question,” I say.  “Do I help you or shoot you?”

The silence echoes.

The waves lap at the rocky shore.

The Northmen are poised for a fight.  It’s twenty-some against six.  Not the best odds I’ve ever faced.

Suddenly, Finnr giggles at Káto, gesturing to me with his ax.  “Are you sure this is the same girl you kept as a slave?”

Surprisingly, an enormous grin stretches Káto’s mouth.  Still staring in my direction, he replies, “I’m certain of it.”

His companions laugh.  I keep a careful eye on Peeta’s brother.  He is still wary, but he is not quite as eager to take my head.  He purses his lips and arrogantly asks, “What are you serving for the night-meal?”

I snort.  “The food we always give to our friends.”

He weighs my offer solemnly before nodding once.  “Fine.  Takes us to your fortress.  I will meet your king and I will speak to my brother.”

I acknowledge his words with a nod of my own before telling my companions, “They will come with us.”

“Peacefully?” Mitchell wonders aloud.

I hesitate long enough to let them know they had better remain alert.  “Yes.  He won’t make trouble until he gets what he’s come here for.”

“And what is that?” Boggs growls.

I smile tightly.  “He wants to see his brother.”

“His brother?” Thresh repeats.

Gale stiffens.

“Yes.  His brother.  This is Káto, Harald Bluetooth’s eldest son and heir.”  This information does not sit well with Gale for some reason.  Had he not believed it when Peeta’s lineage had been made known to all?  “So be nice,” I coach, directing my words to Gale especially.  “He’s family.”

“Katniss,” Mitchell begins in a hesitant tone, his gaze moving between Káto and me, taking in our guarded standoff.  “This man doesn’t know—”

I argue back, “But he will soon.”  Káto is unsurprised to see me leading a team of fighters bristling with weapons – Már had captured me in battle, after all – but he has no reason to believe that I hold any position of esteem greater than that of a fighter… or that I am married to his half-brother.  The truth will come out before the day is done, I’m sure.  At which time, several very important decisions will have to be made, the result of which will affect every single man, woman, and child in Samland.

If Káto will not be dissuaded from taking Peeta back to Denmark with him, will I risk open war?  But if I allow Peeta to go without protest, Alma will be on our doorstep by dusk with his forces, asking after our supposed alliance with Harald and calling my bluff.  My lies will be revealed.

There is nothing I can do about the situation now.  Now, it is up to Peeta to convince his brother to leave quietly and extend our offer of friendship to their father.  There is only one problem with that: I am not sure what Peeta’s decision will be.  Yes, Peeta had given me his word – he’d promised to stay – but when he is face-to-face with his brother, will he change his mind?  Have I given him enough reason to choose me and a life of service to people he does not share kinship with no matter what his brother may say to persuade him otherwise or threaten in retaliation?

One way or another, I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.


	51. Reaching Out

(Peeta)

When Katniss rides into view, I can breathe again.  Breathe and think of something other than blood splattered across her face and hands and vest.  I can imagine something other than her in mortal peril fighting for her life.

I clutch the spear tighter in my grasp and shudder.  Chaff fidgets like he wishes to say something but in the end remains silent.  We both watch the procession as it emerges from the forest in silence.

I do not to let down my guard.  Although the newcomers must be friends, I cannot relax.  Chance has not been especially gentle with either Katniss or me.

The mere _thought_ of some ill befalling my wife has the power to annihilate all my reason and whatever sense I possess.  Seeing her injured will torture me.  Losing her will destroy me.  Especially now that the memory of her touch has become part of my body, soaked into me through my skin and branded onto my bones.  My spirit needs hers to endure.  We are connected, she and I.

I wonder if I’d experienced a moment of true foresight on the road outside Harald’s ring fort.  Laying eyes upon Katniss had changed me, had set my foot upon the path that has led me here.

She calls up to the men on the wall, raising her arm and giving the signal for the gates to be opened.  Haymitch hollers impatiently at the assembled forces and they separate, making room for our guests to enter.

Guests.

I scan the newly arrived visitors and I know every face.  Every single face.  My chest feels suddenly tight.  I am not ready to confront them, to look in their eyes and see their disappointment when they realize I am here willingly.  They’d risked their lives on the sea to set foot on these shores.  I should be grateful.  I will be.  Just as soon as I’ve held Katniss.

By the time the gate has been opened, my feet have hit the packed dirt of the yard.  Katniss unerringly maneuvers her mount between me and my countrymen, blocking me from view.  For the moment, I don’t mind.  I grab the reins.  She has thrown her leg over the saddle and slid down before the animal has come to a complete stop.  I hand the creature off to whoever is standing next to me and then I have my wife in my arms again.  I press a kiss to the crown of her head, hesitating to close my eyes just in cast this is a dream after all.

“I am fine,” she assures me.

“I know.”

She chuckles into my tunic and then pulls away, inviting me to look beyond our reunion.  “Your brother is here.”

I know that as well.  I’d seen him from the top of the wall.  Perhaps I should have lifted a hand in welcome.  Well, too late for that now.

“Peeta,” Káto says.

I tilt my chin and smile.  Seeing him here, now, I realize how much I’ve missed him, the witless oaf.  “Káto.  Welcome to Samland.”

I keep one hand tucked into Katniss’ as I throw the other arm around my brother’s shoulders in greeting.  He smells terrible.  I laugh.

Káto leans back and surveys me from head to boot toe, then back again.  With a shake of his head, he remarks in amazement, “You look better than I’d expected.”

“Then you underestimated Katniss.”

“Taken good care of you, has she?”  This he says with a suggestive arch of his brows.  He’ll never change, the vile troll.

“Of course she has.”

“Well, you’re in good spirits for a hostage.”

The edge in his voice makes me tense.  Now it comes to it.  I have to explain.  But, first things first.

“Are you hungry?  Let’s eat and I’ll ask them to heat some water for baths.”  I turn to Katniss to inquire if there’s anything left from the day-meal, but she’s already speaking with one of the boys who keeps the stables, gesturing him toward the kitchen.  I catch the Samish word for “food” and another for “friends.”

Giving Káto my attention again, I ignore the calculating look on his sea-weathered face.  I have to resist the urge to shift my weight as if seeking my balance.  “It is good to see you.  Thank you for coming.”

“We came to rescue you,” Finnr interjects with a wide smile.  “And look how boring it’s turned out!  I should have stayed home with Oddkatla and spent the evenings watching her comb out wool.”

I laugh in his face.  “Yes, you should have.”  I nod to the man beside him.  “Már.”  Then call each visitor by their names, ending with Kolfrosta’s older sister—  “Johanna.”

“Peeta,” she returns haughtily.

“Did Kolfrosta ask you to come?”  We’ve never been much more than acquaintances, Johanna and I.  After all, what would a former hearth slave like me have to say to a shield maiden as fierce as her?

She taps her fingers impatiently against the ax head poking above her belt.  “No.  Bleikr is dead.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”  I wonder if she is here because she is attempting to outrun the loss of her husband.  When I’d first met them at the Thing some years back, they’d seemed fond of each other – jostling and jeering over their horns of ale, behaving more like rival siblings than husband and wife.

I’m suddenly thankful for Katniss.  I do not know what I would do if I were to lose her.  I just… cannot imagine.

Johanna shrugs off my reply, but I do not believe her show of indifference.  “The fool is drinking his ass off in Valhalla.”

Which means he’d died in battle.  Any further condolences from me would only insult his memory.  “Well, he’d better be saving you a seat next to him or the bards will have another epic battle to sing for us one day.”

She throws her head back and laughs.  “That they will.”

Katniss tugs on my sleeve.  “Food is ready now.”

She nods toward the dining hall and I gesture for my countrymen to follow.  When my wife guides me toward one of the long tables instead of up the steps of the dais, I happily oblige.  I’m a little weary of sitting head and shoulders above everyone.

Gale and the rest of Katniss’ team shadow us, taking seats nearby and accepting only cups of weak ale.  Haymitch wanders in and plops irreverently down on the other side of Katniss.  I stay to her right, keeping my weaker left side between us.  Katniss accepts this, dropping her hand to my knee beneath the table and curving her palm around the damaged muscle.

“Where is this king of yours?” Káto demands as the platters are served and the oarsmen dig in with tactless urgency.

“You will meet him this evening,” Katniss supplies when I glance to her for assistance.

Káto scorns despite the belly-waking and mouth-watering aromas filling the hall, “Too busy to welcome guests in his own house?”

“Yes.”  Katniss angles her chin up confrontationally.  “That is the duty of his children.”

Káto’s sneer freezes on his face.  Finnr looks up from his plate.  Johanna pauses in mid-chew to arch a brow.  Már is the last to realize something significant has transpired.

Katniss smiles sweetly.  “Do you feel welcome, son of Harald of Denmark?”  She leans forward and peers into the depths of his cup.  “More ale?”

As she signals for a server to tend to our visitors’ cups, I can rein in my laughter no longer.  Chuckling in disbelief, I sputter, “You did not tell them who you are?”

She doesn’t deny it.  “I did not tell you.  Until we came inside this fortress.  Did I?”

“Is that a Samish custom or yours alone, Katniss?” I tease.

Her answer is nothing more or less than a delighted smile.  Yes, she does keep a tight hold on her secrets.  That is her way.  She is slow to give her trust, but it is worth the wait.  Many times over.

“Daughter of a king, eh?” Finnr remarks.  He’s so impressed by this turn of events that he’s grinning nonstop.  “What do you need our Peeta for, then?”

Katniss’ fingers tighten on my leg.  Her smile gains a sharpness that could only bode ill at this stage of things.

I interject, “Oh, she’s found a use for me.”  I drop my hand beneath the table and rub her knuckles gently.  The gesture, though concealed, is not lost on our guests.

“I’m sure she has,” Káto remarks shortly without removing his glare from Katniss.  “I’d say he looks too pleased with himself to be your slave… but mayhap he is.  Does he draw your bath?  Warm your bed?”

“He has done those things, yes,” Katniss shocks me by admitting readily, “but not as my slave.”

All eyes turn to me.

“Peeta,” Már begins, “we’ve waited long enough to hear the story of what brought you here.”

I look down at the table top.  On my leg, Katniss’ hand stirs, snagging my attention.  I look up.  Our gazes lock.  “Say little, say all, or say nothing.  It is your choice.”

Does she realize how precious her words are?  Her faith in me is unconditional.  Her trust, priceless.  Before I can second guess myself, I lean forward and press a kiss to her lips.  She returns it readily and smiles when I reluctantly pull away.  Looking only at her, I tell everyone and no one, “Her people journeyed to Denmark to bring her home.  They were in the forest beside the road outside Trelleborg.  When she and I went for a walk that evening, they came for her.  I had no knowledge of her family or rank here, but I could not let her go.  I would have fought them to keep her, six against one.”  I don’t have to tell them that I would have been killed.  “Katniss saved my life.”

“She didn’t need to drag you all this way to accomplish that,” Johanna snipes.

“She did,” I reply softly, scanning the crowded table.  What they do not know is that Katniss had just promised herself to me and— “I wasn’t letting her go without me.”

Káto leans back on his bench with a put-upon sigh.  “Peeta, you can’t—”

“Don’t,” Katniss growls sharply.  “Peeta can do anything.  He is not your slave _here.”_

The ferocity of her assertion shocks the breath out of me.

She continues, “He is not for sale.  You are not his master.  You are his brother.”  She draws her gaze up and down the length of the table.  “You are his friends.  _You_ came here.  You will listen to his wishes.  Respect them.  Respect _him.”_   She ends this speech with a steady stare directed at the leader of the expedition.

No one dares move first in the wake of such a challenge.

I don’t know whether to be embarrassed or flattered that Katniss has assumed that all of these people are my friends.  They are Káto’s friends, first and foremost.  It had not been unreasonable to expect him to send Már or Finnr here to look for me, but I _am_ surprised to see Káto venture so far from Trelleborg himself when he has young children to provide for.  Had Harald approved this?  If so, _why?_   Why send the heir to his kingdom out to look for a bastard son of a slave woman?  I cannot fathom it.

But these musings are not helping the situation any.

I clear my throat.  “I was hoping to send word to let you know that I was well here.  I didn’t expect all of you to come.”

Katniss lets out a long sigh and mutters under her breath, “You do not see clearly, Peeta.  You do not see _you_ clearly.”

Her aggravation makes me smile.  “That’s because you see me well enough for both of us.”

She snorts and shakes her head, refusing the implication.

“So, they tolerate you here because you’re a guest of the little princess?” Johanna muses in a smart tone.

I can feel Katniss struggling to hold onto her temper.  Daringly, I wrap my left arm around her waist.  “At first,” I admit, “but the people here have welcomed me.”

“Is that so?  I don’t see a crown on your head.”

I answer her sarcasm with a smile.  “That’s because they don’t honor their rulers with uncomfortable headwear here but rather a fur mantle.  It better suits the weight of a nation that leaders must bear upon their shoulders, don’t you think?”

At my words, the gaze of every man and woman at the table drops to the white fur curving over my shoulders.  I give them a small, if misleading, smile.

Káto suddenly swears out loud.  “You selfish little bastard!  Just from your face I—  You—”  His gaze darts down, taking in the way I’ve possessively tucked Katniss up against my side.  “You’ve married her.”

I roll my eyes.  “That was always my intention.  Why are you surprised?”

“I am not surprised.  I am disappointed.  _Disappointed_ that you would be so foolish.”

I don’t have to ask why he would say such a thing.  I suppose I am foolish for my fascination with Katniss.  I’d been foolish to want her when she’d been a mere slave and I’m foolish now for thinking I might make a place for myself at the side of a future queen.  If I am a fool, so be it, but I am a happy one.

I turn to my wife and say with mock severity, “Perhaps, if you spend more time milking goats and cows, Káto will be happier about this news.”

She blinks slowly, tilting her chin down in affront as if to ask if she’d really heard those exact words come out of my mouth.

Finnr and Már laugh.  They’ve been in our vicinity often enough to have been subjected to Káto’s enthusiastic endorsements of the qualities of the typical milkmaid.  Or shepherdess.

“Peeta,” my brother begins.

I hold up a hand.  “No.  No, Káto.  We are brothers.  You bought my freedom, and you will always have my gratitude for that, but you will not decide my future for me.”

“I will when I see you making a mistake as big as this.  I took the collar off of you, but I still have the power to put it right back on.”

I stiffen.

So does every other Norse-speaking person at the table.  Katniss included.

Johanna throws a partially gnawed bone in the general vicinity of Káto’s head.  It strikes his shoulder before bouncing onto the stone floor.  “Nice effort at reasoning with him, brother brainless!  He’ll not want to come home now – and none of us would blame him.  As if we’d just _let_ you shackle him.  Moron.”

“Káto,” Finnr adds softly, his hand falling heavily on my brother’s shoulder and keeping him from rising up to answer Johanna’s slight, “you know what it did to your father to see that leather around his own son’s neck.  Don’t.  Just… don’t.”

An uncomfortable silence falls in sheets, like a downpour of uncertainty, stubbornness, and stress.

Katniss stands.  Fury chops at her tone but she keeps it in check: “Friends, you are tired.  We will prepare baths and beds for you.”  She doesn’t ask me to leave the room with her.  She doesn’t have to.  I need a moment away from them all.  I need a moment of normalcy.

Once we’ve reached the corridor, Katniss’ pace slows.  She takes a deep breath.  Her anger simmers and fades as she pulls it deep within herself.  “Are you all right?” she checks.

I’m not sure.  I open my mouth to speak.  Nothing comes out.

She places her hand on my arm.  “I must see my father,” she confides in a gentle whisper, and I nod.  Yes, we should speak to him.  If he’d heard the horn earlier, he’ll want to know what has happened.

We enter the king’s meeting room and find it empty.  I move with Katniss toward the far door.  I could probably wait for her out here on a bench, but with Katniss’ aggressive defense charging the air between us and Káto’s threat still ringing in my ears, I cannot be alone now.  Johanna’s antagonistic objections and Finnr’s gentle words of counsel only confuse me further.  Later, perhaps, I will seek solitude, but not now.  Now, I seek respite.  Distance and distraction.  A haven.

Prim is sitting at the king’s bedside, combing his hair.  She seems startled to see us in her father’s bed chamber.  Perhaps she’d thought we would spend more time entertaining the visitors?

Katniss speaks to her father briefly and then places a hand on my shoulder.  “I must prepare the baths and beds.  Will you stay here?”

I nod.  I don’t want her to leave, but I’m grateful for the king and Prim’s company.  Perhaps it is cowardly to need a moment and a place to hide, but Katniss does not look at me with any less respect for it.  “Hurry back,” I urge her.

“I will.”

I angle my chin toward her in a silent request for a kiss, which she gives me readily, and then she strides noisily from the room, slamming the door in her distraction – or perhaps out of renewed irritation with Káto – on the way out.

Sinking down onto the bench beside Prim, I run a hand through my hair, pausing to clutch the strands as I try to sort through the scene in the dining hall.  Why would Káto say such a thing?  He must be truly furious with me, but I cannot for the life of me determine why.  Why is he not happy for me?  Marriage to the daughter of a foreign king is an amazing match.  One that our father could happily claim some credit for, even if he does not call me his son.  He might tell his people that I am Káto’s man and representative here.  A steward like Haymitch, perhaps.  True, Káto might not be pleased about returning home without me, but there is no reason for his anger.

Unless he is rallying for war?  Had he come all this way to stir up hostilities?  But what could be gained from such a move?  Even the tensions between Harald and his brother Sweyn in Norway will not be eased by attacking Samland.

No.  I am reaching too far with that explanation.  The truth must be simpler.

“Peeta?”

I startle.  “Hm?  Oh.  I’m sorry, Prim.”

“How are you today?” she asks slowly.

“Morning was… good.  Thank you for breakfast,” I reply, cautiously measuring my words.  I have too much on my mind to trust myself to speak coherently in Samish.  “But now is… not good.”

Prim nods understandingly, saying Katniss’ name and perhaps that she’d already described the situation.

“Your brother?” Prim prompts.

I nod but then shrug helplessly.

My new sister nods.  “Older brothers are… difficult sometimes,” she counsels.  “Gale and Rory.  And, older sisters, too: Katniss and me.  Very difficult sometimes.”

I blow out a deep breath.  She’s right.  Of course.  My smile blossoms from a bud of gratitude.  “Thank you.  They are good words, Prim.”

The king grunts softly in agreement.  Sharing my smile with him, I notice his open palm extended toward me upon the bed furs.  Leaning over and taking his hand, it belatedly occurs to me that this man is aware of the fact that I had just spent the night in his daughter’s bed, but rather than feeling the weight of his judgment upon me, I feel only kindness.  I am quietly astounded that Katniss’ father extends his hand, his friendship, and his regard to me openly.

If only my own father could have offered me the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, we will find out what’s got Káto’s shorts all twisted up in a bunch. *cough* Eventually. *cough* 
> 
> But! I wanted to mention a thing or two about the practice of re-enslaving a freed slave. I’m totally not an expert on this, but I’m guessing that it wouldn’t be done as a punishment necessarily. See, a freed slave probably wouldn’t have the kind of family network that the average person would need to properly support themselves, so they might end up in a pinch. (Perhaps a financial one would be most likely.) If that were to happen, re-enslaving the slave (and bringing him/her back under the direct protection of his/her former master) might actually be considered a kindness or even the responsibility of the former master. 
> 
> Again, I’m no expert. This is just one totally unjustified interpretation on the practice. Something for you to consider before you all go out with your Káto dolls and start burning him in effigy. I mean, he might actually have a non-evil motivation for suggesting what he did. You’ll just have to trust me on this one… for now. And yes, only the former master (or the person who paid for the slave’s freedom) could take away their status of freed man/woman (I think).


	52. Something Ominous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was very uncooperative to write. If you spy any typos, please let me know! I kinda had to go nuclear on it.

(Katniss)

 

My fury is unending.

I will never forgive or forget Káto for the cold words he’d said to Peeta, for how he’d treated him: like a disobedient child who refuses to stop playing in the yard after dark, who is in need of a keeper, who deserves to have his life fettered and supervised.

Although I want nothing more than to unleash my anger upon him, I cannot.  How can I when I can offer Peeta little better?  We both serve Samland.  We are both still slaves.

“Haymitch,” I call out upon returning to the dining hall.

“Yes, dumpling?”

He doesn’t look surprised to see me or all that inquisitive.  He knows what I intend to request of him.  As the sworn right hand of my father, he is the least free of all of us.

“I’ve promised our guests the chance to bathe.”

He wrinkles his nose.  “Good decree.”

I lock my throat so that the snort of humor doesn’t escape.  “Will you prepare the washing room for the men?”

“And while I’m supervising that delight, what’ll you be doing?”

I only need a moment to consider my own task.  “I’ll be moving bedding into the granary.”  I give Haymitch a tight smile that speaks of vengeful thoughts.  “The one Peeta built.”

I’ve never seen Haymitch look prouder of me.  “That’ll show ‘em, dumpling.”

I know.  It is fitting that Káto and the others, who continue to doubt Peeta’s value as a leader, will sleep protected by the structure my husband had built with his own hands.

Yet another reminder of all that Peeta _can_ do.

Laying out beds in the still green-smelling granary is satisfying, but it does nothing to calm my temper.  I can shove Peeta’s worth in their faces as much as I like, but nothing will change the fact that such a display is needful in the first place.  Why does Káto treat his brother as if he is not capable of being a grown man and yet he’d come all this way to retrieve him?  He is clearly worth an earnest rescue attempt, but he is not a man of worth in and of himself?

I do not understand.

I’m still wrestling with these thoughts when I enter the just vacated washing room to assist our female guests.

“How could our poor Peeta prefer a woman with a face like that?”

I swing around at the accusation.  The women warriors who had arrived on Harald’s ship are in the midst of undressing in preparation for their promised baths, watching me with open curiosity.  The one who’d just spoken, Johanna I’d heard Peeta call her, looks me up and down.  I do not impress her, apparently.

Well, whatever regard she’d won from me by defending Peeta earlier has been lost.  Her words, her tone and sneer hold no respect for my husband.  Rather, she paints him as some sort of pitiful pet.

If I open my mouth, I will curse her, so I keep it shut.

“Perhaps he hasn’t seen this look yet,” a red-haired maid suggests, her battle-hardened smile wide upon her pale face.

Johanna smirks, tilting her head of haphazardly braided hair to the side and speculates crudely, “She probably keeps his head too far under her skirt for him to notice much else.”

“I am not wearing a skirt,” I point out tightly.  A heated flush that is part embarrassment and part rage begins creeping up the back of my neck.  How dare these women speak of my husband this way!  How dare they even think him to be so weak a man!

“Hence the scowl that could crack an iceberg right down the middle,” Johanna of the messy braids drawls with a knowing twitch of her brows.  “Can’t expect the poor man to do his job properly through all that.”  She skims my fabric-covered lower half with her condescending gaze.

I bite my tongue and ignore the glances directed at my leg wrappings.  I could not care less what they think of my garb.

“A pity, too!” a third woman, blond and busty and confident, contributes.  “Seeing stars on the ceiling might be the only way to wipe that scowl off of her face!”

Whatever they say of me is irrelevant, but the fact that they are assuming Peeta’s worth must be limited to—to— _that!_

I pause, draw in a deep breath, and dismiss my rage.  Peeta would not want me to get angry and I know from experience that it never helps, only hinders.  So I think of my husband, of all he has done for me, of all I have done for him… the blame for these demeaning assumptions does not lie with him or with me.  It is only themselves who they shame with their uncaring and callous chatter.

“Peeta,” I begin in a measured tone.  “Will be king here someday.  A good one.  I pity you – you are his people, but you do not see him.”

With deft hands, I set out the bath linens.  The women warriors watch me, their expressions set in a range of stone.  I have not made any friends, but that is fine.  I leave them to their bathing and head to the kitchens in the bailey.  The sun greets me like an old friend and I pause to appreciate its warmth.  It feels like summer today although it is far too early to last.

The bailey is crowded this afternoon.  Káto’s oarsmen, having finished with their baths, roam the yard.  Beside a weapons rack, Mason is humoring Már, allowing the man to weigh one of our Samish spears in his hand.  I don’t doubt that the Northmen’s weapons are superior to ours; Már’s pompous smile seems to confirm that.

I also spy Gale out-of-doors.  He is seated under the roof of the archery’s gallery, trimming the fletch of a newly hewn arrow.  I follow his gaze toward the outdoor kitchen and count two loitering Northmen.  I recognize one by his bronze hair, but the name of the second eludes me.

I wish I had the words to inform Finnr just how much he and his comrade resemble a pair of mangy wolfhounds in the way they blatantly hope for scraps to be tossed their way.  My lips twitch, tickled by the sight as the kitchen staff gives them a wide berth as they lounge against the wooden counter, eying the array of boiling pots and spitted animals longingly.  I can hear the tone of their voices as they jest between themselves.  The Northmen are not always cruel.  It is this playful side of them that my people cannot adjust to.

But that is my responsibility, isn’t it?  To see that these two peoples mingle peacefully?

With a surge of inspiration, I recall how Peeta had behaved in a time of similar tension.  I recall that first evening in Trelleborg when I’d endeavored to steal a blade under the guise of pouring ale and Peeta had distracted Már from touching me.  I do not know what had been said, but I remember playful shoving, a bit of teasing, Peeta’s face flushing and everyone laughing.  Laughter, I realize, might be the best cure for this stalemate.

Stomping over to the kitchen, I call out to Ripper, the head cook, “Are these louts from my brother-in-law’s boat bothering you?”

“Not especially,” she returns loudly, directing her voice to all the younger workers who look a bit twitchy.  “It takes more than a leer to get under the skin of a Samdian!”

I bark out a laugh.  She’s not called Ripper just because she can tear meat from a joint, that’s for sure.

Seeing that Ripper has the Samish half the situation well in hand, I move to address the other.  As I walk by, I give in to the urge to kick a booted foot out from underneath Finnr.  He stumbles against his comrade who laughs at his clumsiness.

“Katniss!” Finnr objects, his eyes sparkling with mischief.  “That was not hospitable!”

I don’t try to hide my guilt.  “There are benches, but you do not sit,” I accuse with a playful grin.  “I only made a suggestion.”

“That’s not how you invite a man to take a seat!”

“Perhaps it is here.”

He laughs.  “For some reason, I do not believe you!”

I don’t maintain the argument.  It’s time I returned to the keep.  I’ve been away longer than I’d expected.  “Be good,” I tell them both, “and we will give you dinner.  When it is ready.”

Finnr laughs, giving me a jaunty salute when I glance back over my shoulder.  They make a show of settling in to wait patiently for dinner to be done.

Yes, they seem harmless enough, but still…

I catch Gale’s eye and we exchange a brief nod.  He’ll watch these two for me just as Mason is shadowing Már.  I’m sure Thresh, Boggs, Mitchell, and Chaff are all engaged in similar pursuits.

Our mutual stare holds until Gale fidgets.  The arrow in his grasp wobbles and I take note of the feathers he’d used for the fletch.  They’re the type I prefer and have recommended to him time and time again.  Is he finally taking my advice on arrow making?  Or could the arrow be intended for me?  It looks like it would be at home amongst the others in my sheath.

This is a small thing, but I am confident that it is a peace offering. 

He salutes me with it, twirling the shaft between his fingers, and with a flick of his wrist, he sends it into an empty quiver hanging up on the neighboring post.  Gale looks ridiculously pleased with himself at the display.  Pleased and open.  He’d fashioned the arrow and now it is up to me to retrieve it.  And I will.  Later.  Soon.  Yes, perhaps Gale and I can mend our friendship after all.

With a lighter heart, I hurry back to my father’s rooms.  Wrenching open the door, I’m surprised by the sounds of mirth coming from the bed chamber.  The swift sting of envy drives me across the room.  I’d clearly missed a portion of whatever merriment is unfolding; I feel hollow with a hunger that will only be appeased by a certain Northman’s brilliant smile and bright eyes.

Tracking the sound of Peeta’s happy chuckling, I discover him and my sister in the midst of playing out a battle upon a wooden game board as my father grunts and shakes his head minutely in disapproval.

“Who is winning?”  I ask in Samish and then repeat the question more quietly in Norse.  I place my hands on Peeta’s shoulders and squeeze the taut muscles firmly.

Peeta laughs, leaning his head back to look up at me and… yes.  This is what I need.  This look.  This smile.  Whatever jealousy I might have been feeling upon seeing him enjoy a game with my sister and father instead of with me evaporates at the joyous twinkle in his blue eyes.

“I’m not sure,” he confesses.  “Prim and I are still trying to figure that out.”

“Hm.  It sounds like someone is complicating matters,” I accuse, aiming the words at my father along with a conspiratorial grin.  He tries to look innocent, but I see through his facade.

I offer to help both Prim and Peeta, but my sister declines.  “I trust Papa more than I trust you,” she cheekily retorts.  I roll my eyes and don’t resist when Peeta pulls me around the edge of the bench and seats me on his lap.

“This will be a team effort,” I tell him, trying not to wiggle too much as he wraps an arm around my waist.

“I trust you,” he assures me, and we play.

It quickly becomes apparent that my father and Prim have played this game together before – perhaps the two of them against Haymitch – because they win handily thanks to what I suspect is a series of coded gestures or even well-timed sighs.

“Tell me how you two did that,” I demand, irked that I hadn’t been able to impress Peeta with my skill.  I’m actually rather decent at this game… unless Haymitch has spent the last dozen years simply letting me win so I wouldn’t waste his time sulking.

“Oh, Katniss,” Prim teases me, shaking her head as if any attempt to explain her strategy to me will be a lost cause.

To my consternation, Peeta chuckles knowingly.  Am I the only one who had not seen defeat coming?

“Did you just let us lose?”

He shrugs a shoulder.  “I wanted to see what kind of woman I’m married to.”

“Really?  What kind am I?”

He brushes his knuckles over my cheek.  “The kind who can’t hide her emotions to save her life.  The kind who thinks on her feet rather than five moves ahead.  The kind who will forgive her husband for being curious?”

He is right to make that last one into a question.  I deliberate on the best form of revenge to exact.  “Hm.  Fine.  When _I_ am curious – next time – you will not stop me.”

Peeta grins.  “Agreed.”

I have to bite back a laugh.  He has no idea what he’s just agreed to.  His trust in me gives him strength, but it is also his downfall.

My smile wobbles.

Peeta notices.  “What is it?”

Because I cannot lie to him, because I am incapable of deceiving him, I lean my head against his and murmur, “Later.”

Later, when my thoughts are clearer, when I understand why my entire being had just clenched with dread, I will share my suspicion: a downfall is coming.  I sense it.  I look from Peeta’s blue eyes, framed with concern, to my father’s clear gaze expressed in grey.  He is so calm.  Perhaps I am the only one who has glimpsed something indistinct and ominous on the horizon.

Perhaps it is not real at all…

…or, perhaps I am the only one who can stop it.


	53. No Questions, No Hesitation

(Peeta)

 

The instant the meeting room door shuts behind us, I pull Katniss into the nearest shadowy alcove and tuck her up against my chest.  She is so tense it’s a wonder she can breathe at all.  Is she bracing herself for an inquisition?  I do wonder about that moment in her father’s room – that moment of sudden terror she hadn’t been able to conceal behind her smile – but I suspect she’ll dismiss it as unimportant if I simply ask… and then she’ll lock me out when I persist.

So I try another tack.

“I’m sorry I left you to manage our visitors.”  I breathe these words softly into her hair and relish the slight shudder of her body beneath my hands and against my chest.  She enjoys it when I paint her skin with my breath.  It tempts her, melts her stubborn resolve, but will it be enough to coax her into revealing what it is she’s hiding?  I’m not sure, so I offer up my own confession in the hope that it will prompt hers: “That was very cowardly of me.  You deserve better than that.”

She burrows her face into my neck and sighs.  I try not to react to the warmth but it’s impossible.  She can dissolve me with a thought.

Her fingers clutch the back of my tunic in fistfuls.  “No,” Katniss argues.  “Káto was stupid.  He… um, attacked you.  Now you are rested and stronger.  Stronger than before.”

“But I—”

“Resting – away from them – that is wise.”  She glares at me as I draw yet another argumentative breath.

Her admiration of me is baffling.  “According to you, I can do no wrong.  I am not perfect, Katniss.”

“I am not perfect also,” she admits.  “But you, um, calm me.  You show me my good things.”

I blink, stunned.  Do I do that for her?  Do I banish her self-doubt and shore her up?  “Then… let me help you now,” I dare.  “What is the matter?”

She scrapes her lower lip with her teeth before biting down on the inside of her cheek.  “I don’t know, but I… feel… a secret?”  She pauses and then shakes her head, unsatisfied with her own words, “Something is wrong, I think.  I don’t know.  Perhaps I am… um, it is a dream?  Of my mind?”

“No, you should trust your instincts,” I hurry to reassure her.  “You know the ways of this place and you’re seeing it with new eyes now, since your return.”

“I see but know nothing,” she grumbles, unimpressed by my show of faith.

“Then we’ll find out together.  Just tell me what you need.  I will do it.”

“No questions?”

“No questions.”

“No wait?”

“No hesitation,” I vow.

She nods, pets my beard and smooths her fingertips over my lips.  “Thank you.”

“Do not thank me yet,” I implore, wary of promising more than I can deliver.  I need a moment to absorb what she had described.  If Katniss is sensing something beneath the surface, something moving in the shadows around us, some hidden agenda or concealed truth, can I really assume that she is safe?  Not for the first time, I damn my inability to soak up the language here faster.  If only I could understand the words…  If only I knew the nuances of Samish gestures and tone…

I suddenly think of Gale.

I think of how much I’ve relied on him to watch over Katniss.

I think of that hard look in his grey eyes this morning in the corridor.

I don’t know what to think.

My breath – heated by frustration – leaves my lungs on a noisy exhalation.  “What happens next?” I ask, hoping Katniss hadn’t been about to pose the same question to me.

She tilts her chin up.  Our gazes meld.  “Now we prepare for dinner.”

I nod, and when she doesn’t look away, I lean in for a kiss.  Her lips are so soft and they are made softer still as they part in invitation.  The feel of her in my arms, pressed against my chest, and her hips angled into mine makes me want so many things.  I want her safe.  I want her with me.  I want her bare of clothing.  I want her breathy sighs against my skin.  I want her wandering and curious hands on me.  I want her smile, her happiness, her being free of fear and doubt.

A door opens further down the corridor and I reluctantly pull back.  The taste of her lingers in my mouth, the scent of her in my head.  I miss the feel of her tongue moving against mine.

The footsteps on the wooden floor most likely belong to Haymitch.  They move away and out of earshot.

“Right,” I murmur, running my hands up and down the back of her arms, from elbow to shoulder and down again.  I’m not quite able to separate myself from her just yet.  “Dinner.  What can I do?”

“Show Káto we need you here.”

I laugh softly.  She doesn’t ask for much from me, my wife.  “And how shall I do that?”

She smiles.  “Come.  Help me dress.”

The cough of disbelief spurts out before I can stop it.  “I doubt that’ll impress Káto.”

“Agreed,” she allows.  Her gaze moves down to my lips, further still along my throat, chest, and lower.  “But I will enjoy it.”

I grin.  “In that case…”

I don’t protest when she grabs my hand and leads me back to our room.  We encounter no one in the corridor, but I somehow doubt it would have bothered Katniss if we had.  We are behaving like the newlyweds we are rather than two people suspicious of mysterious goings-on around us.

Is this a pretense?

The thought crosses my mind as I kick the door shut behind us.

Katniss’ mouth erases it.

She pushes me back against the wall and reaches out to slide the lock closed.  “I must wear a gown tonight,” she informs me, mumbling against my lips.  “Do I wear it now or later?”

I don’t even have to think about my reply: “Later.”

“Hm.”

It sounds like an agreement and then I decide that it could be nothing else as my wife’s hands fumble beneath my tunic for the waist of my trousers.  My fingers curl tightly in her hair as her dexterous hands decimate the trouser laces.  My breaths quicken.  Is she—?

“Curious,” she purrs.  “I am curious _now,_ Peeta.”

Her fingertips – warm and slightly callused.  Her palm – warmer still – and when her hand finds bare skin, curls, grips, tightens—!

She breathes, “You promised you will not say no.”

I can say nothing at all.  I gasp.  Every muscle in my body stiffens.  She is—  She is—  I gulp, breath now locked beyond my reach.  I cannot move, not until she does.  I wait, drawn taut and at her mercy until her grip upon me finally shifts, tugs, pulls relentlessly.  I sag back against the door.

“Wait.  Katniss, wait.”  I need to lie down.  There’s nothing to hold me up except for her warm hands; my knees are already starting to tremble.  “Bed.  Please.”

She steps back after a momentary – _torturous_ – pause and I stumble for the fur-covered surface.  When I move to unclench my belt, she stops me.  “No.  You will wear this tonight.  You will remember this.  You will think of me.”

Words abandon me, leap from my tongue in the wake of the breath I suck into my lungs.  _Yes,_ I think wholeheartedly as her lips engage mine in a thoroughly possessive kiss.  _Yes,_ I nearly groan as her hands return to their earlier task.  _Yes,_ I mouth in silence as she pushes my knees wide and kneels between them.

I have no more words – silent or otherwise – after that.  Her mouth leisurely parts from mine, replaces her hands, and speaks for both of us.  I give her my undivided attention, forcing myself to release her braid from my grasping fingers so I can paw at the furs.  My entire body flexes, riding the waves of sensation that roll through me unimpeded until her soft hums of encouragement and her hands, hot upon my hips, drive me past the point of sanity.

The world goes white.

Then, dark.

I open my eyes.

And then I groan.  “Katniss…”

Her hands move over my bare thighs in reply.  Where had she learned a thing like that?  But then I remember her companions: she fights beside men.  Other than her sister, I have not seen Katniss keeping company with any other women.

I’m not sure how deep of an assumption I should be making.

“Was that… um… good?”

She sounds so uncertain and curious that I have to amend my thinking.  I force my trembling limbs to support me so I can sit up and meet her stare.  She bites her lip, which glistens tantalizingly.

I nod helplessly, reaching for her and bringing her close for a kiss.  She braces her hands upon my shoulders as I chase after her tongue.  The kiss does not help us catch our breath, but I’m smiling when I pull back.  “Very good,” I finally manage to say.  “Can I ask… how did you learn to…?”

She glances away on a quiet laugh.  I thank the gods that I hadn’t offended her.

“Um.  Sigga explained.”

“What?”

Katniss mimes a very expressive but familiar gesture.

I stare at her, mouth hanging open in shock.  “When—?  Why—?  She told you—what—?”

Katniss attempts to speak while biting her lip.  She can’t quite manage it and, when the flesh slips free from beneath her teeth, it is deliciously wet and reddened.  “When you, um, in the summer.  You left with the sheep.  I always met you there and Sigga said many things.  Um.  She told me…”  Her blush speaks the words she doesn’t know.

“Gods.”  I’m blushing with her.  To think that old troublemaker had educated Katniss on the finer points of passion with little more than mumbles and gestures.  I can’t decide if I should ask Káto to pass on my thanks or not.

And then my awe slowly overcomes my embarrassment.  If I am understanding Katniss rightly, then with nothing more than gossip for a guide, she’d decided to— “You are the bravest person I have ever known.”

She tucks her chin down in silent denial.  “No, you—”

I lift a shaky hand and press my fingertips to her lips.  This one time, I beg her to abandon her words.  She needs to listen to me now.  She needs to hear this.  “No, not me.  _You.”_   I smile as I trace her mouth with my fingertips.  “Because otherwise I might never have summoned the courage to return the favor.”

“It is not a favor.  I—”

I don’t let her finish.  Clamping my hands around her waist, I pull her up and lay her down beside me.  She squeals softly, a startled yelp in the back of her throat, and my fingers reach for the laces upon her hunting vest.  This and all the rest of it has to come off anyway if she is intent on changing before dinner.  My assistance is well justified.

“Peeta, you do not—”

“You,” I interrupt with a devilish gleam in my eyes, “did not give me a choice.”

She blushes, bites the inside of her cheek, and holds her tongue as I swiftly loosen her clothing.  And then, when she is bare, I take my time.  There are so many things to learn.  So many things I can give her.  Good things, just like I’d promised.

I keep my promises.

The room grows dim with the arrival of eventide before I’ve drunk my fill of her, before her hands have fallen – loose and trembling – from where they clench in my hair and tunic to lie upon the furs.  When she opens her eyes again, they are glazed and heavy-lidded.  It takes a few attempts before they finally focus on mine.  I hold her close, wishing I were as bare as she instead of fully clothed, but I cannot deny the effectiveness of her plan.  Indeed, whenever I look down at myself or feel cloth moving against my skin tonight, I will remember this.  Her mouth.  Her taste.  Her.  She is both predator and prey.  She is mine.

Her mouth curves as she lifts a hand to trace my lips.  “This smile,” she whispers.  “Show this smile tonight.”

I tilt my head to the side as I contemplate her motives.  “And what will this accomplish?”

“The others will see it.  They will know you are mine.”

It hits me then, what she has done.  And what a brilliant strategy it is!  I would have laughed if not for the fact that— “They have never seen this smile before.”

She frowns slightly.

I explain.  “Uh, because I’ve never, um, been with a woman before.  You are my first.”

Katniss blinks.  “Why—?”

She is so exquisitely stunned that my ego can’t help but take notice.  I love her defense of me.  I see in her surprise the most precious of truths: she counts many good qualities in me.  But I answer her, “No one wanted a boy who can only do the work of women and children.”

“That is not you,” Katniss retorts.  Her scowl draws me in and her words puncture my heart.  “You are a man.  You do a king’s work.”  Her hand smooths over my chest.  “You give everything.  Your every… _thing._   That is a king’s work.”

I shake my head and sigh.  “I don’t mean to.  I don’t know how else to be.”

“Do not be… else.  Be you.  Peeta.”  She winds her arms around my shoulders.  “Come to dinner.  Smile.  Listen.  Help me fill the cups with ale.”  Her grin tilts into a sensual smile as her fingers pet the front of my tunic.  “Think about me.”

“And this will show everyone that I am needed?”

She nods.  “It will show them.”  She pushes my hair back from my brow and concludes, “You belong here.”

And because I belong with Katniss, wherever she may be, I do not argue.  I kiss her, I hold her for a moment longer, and then I help her dress.


	54. Futile

(Katniss)

 

I scan the feasting crowd, smiling woodenly over the rim of the ale pitcher until my cheeks hurt.  I have no idea what I’m looking for or that answers will even be revealed tonight.  Or that I’ll know them when I see them.

This is a futile exercise.

Futile, but I have no intention of leaving Peeta’s side, not even to collect the solitary arrow still awaiting retrieval from the gallery of the archery.  My acceptance of Gale’s overture must wait.  My place is here with Peeta as he pours ale for our visitors and my countrymen alike.  I’m also keeping an eye on Prim and my father, but Haymitch and Chaff are with them.  My comrades are spaced out nearby as well.  They do not need me.  Peeta does.

“We must stop meeting like this, Peeta,” Finnr jests as the ale pitcher is deftly tipped and his cup refilled.  “Although at least you’ve brought a girl with you this time.”

“I’ll have you know that I am more than pretty enough to serve ale to the likes of you,” Peeta responds with a luminescent grin.

Finnr’s lips twitch as his green eyes flick over my husband.  I know that look.  Haymitch had offered us its twin the moment we’d stepped outside to join the banquet tonight.  Finnr is looking for evidence of what Peeta and I might have been up to just prior to dinner: furrows left by clawing hands… impressions from too-sharp teeth upon his pale skin… bruises from sucking kisses.

Well, Finnr is welcome to search and assume all he likes.  I value my husband too greatly to leave marks upon his supple skin.

“You’re not half as pretty as you think you are,” the swaggering Northman grouses.  He is a grown man and yet he is pouting.  Pouting.

Peeta laughs.  “You sound sad, Finnr.  But don’t worry – you’ll be home with your wife soon.”

Finnr lifts his cup to that.

As I steer Peeta away, he chuckles and presses a whiskery kiss to my cheek.  My inner thighs tingle at the memory of those same whiskers brushing against my tender skin only an hour earlier.

“What?” I demand, trying not to smile too widely.  Why is it I am constantly manufacturing a smile or suppressing a genuine one?

“You were right – they know.  With just one look at my face, they all know.”

I arch a brow.  “Is that bad?”

He tilts his head to the side and replies through a charmingly crooked smile.  “Hm… no.  I think I like it.”

And with a smile like that lighting him up from the inside, I can’t bring myself to even pretend embarrassment.  This had been my idea, after all.  Peeta is incapable of hiding his joy and if his countrymen see him happy, they will feel less obligated to try to take him away.

This hope I aim at his friends’ hearts, but another I direct at their logic.  They have met my father, seen his frailty.  His impressive energy from the previous evening is fading fast.  They know I am the eldest – that had been made clear during the introductions and Haymitch’s welcome speech, which I’d translated for our guests – and thus they know that with my father’s death, Peeta will be king.  They cannot expect him to abandon that.

That is my hope, anyway.  A glance in Káto’s direction reveals his continuing scowl.  He is not impressed by his half-brother’s display of cheer or high status here.  My palm itches to slap him.  He is behaving like a child throwing a temper tantrum.  His younger brother has finally come into good fortune: a marriage that could benefit King Harald, a home in a land where Peeta is both welcomed and admired, and a wife who puts _this_ smile on his face.  How can his brother object to these things?

I don’t understand.

“Don’t,” Peeta cautions, his voice dipping softly into my ear.

I turn away from Káto and raise my brows in silent inquiry.

“I’ll deal with him.”

“Why is he angry?  Do you know?”

Peeta shakes his head, shrugs off the conundrum, and renews his smile.  “Don’t forget we’re mad for each other.  You may kiss me at any time.”

I laugh, which I’m sure had been his goal, and I surprise him by leaning forward and placing a kiss upon his cheek, just above his bearded jaw.  His blue eyes illuminate even further; I hadn’t thought it possible, but here’s the proof.  He’ll be shining like the sun soon.

He marvels.  “You really want me.”

“Of course I do.”  And in so many ways: at my side as we face my people, in my bed in the dark of night, rocking our children to sleep after dinner, sharing a platter and a cup at meals…

I watch the disbelief wax and wane across his expressive face.  “I just… I never once expected…  Is this a dream?”

How can he still doubt it?  “No.  It’s real and I want you.”

His eyes darken.  His jaw flexes.  He sets the half-empty ale pitcher down upon the nearest table and draws me through the cheerful throng toward the stables.  I try to bite down on my smile, but it escapes me time and time again.

We slip in through the door and slide into the shadows.  Peeta wastes not a moment more before taking my mouth with his.  The night air has made his lips a little cool, but they quickly warm until the both of us are blazing like the torches in the bailey, where people drink and eat and tell stories and swap jokes and wrestle and dance.

I would very much like to dance.

My hands skim down from his shoulders and over his chest to venture around his waist to his back.  I sway my hips forward.  He catches my meaning, bracing himself over me with one hand while the other roves hungrily down from my collarbone to breast, belly, hip, thigh—

I curse the thick fabric of my ridiculous gown.  And then I praise the gods for giving me this man, congratulate myself on finding a way to keep him.  I melt as his mouth glides from my burning lips to my neck.  He reaches down further, grasping my leg behind the knee and lifting it up over his hip, opening me in the darkness.

The hem of my gown flutters – a breeze upon my calves – and then warm fingers trace urgent lines along my skin, moving relentlessly higher.

I lean my head back against the wall and groan his name.

“Shh,” Peeta reminds me, pressing a chaste kiss to my lips.

I grit my teeth together and exhale sharply as his hot palm ventures hungrily up my bare thigh beneath the skirt of my gown.  This is not the place or the time – I should be out there in the midst of the banquet watching for that darkness I sense looming ever nearer – but I want him too much to object.  If anything, I would complain about how slowly he is proceeding.

His hips roll against the cradle of mine and I press back in reply.  He nuzzles my throat and I helplessly tilt my cheek against his yellow curls.  The heat of his roving fingers overpowers me in the darkness behind my closed eyelids and I open them on a gasp, searching for some mundane distraction to anchor me against the buffeting waves of his intensity.

The stables are a useless, dark blur to me and Peeta is so solid and real.  So tentative and bold in turns.  Why is he still surprised that I desire him?  How can he dissolve me with a touch?  I ought to be surprised by one or the other but not both… and yet they catch me off-guard.  Peeta continues to surprise me.  I think I like that.  Very much.

A movement beyond and through the open awning, out in the yard, draws my blurry gaze.  Through the unlocked shutters, I glimpse a familiar figure skulking around the archery shed.  I absently recognize his form and gait – it is Gale and he is searching for something.

Well, let him search.  I fall back into the feel of my husband’s hand.  Peeta searches for something as well and very soon I’m sure he will find it.

His breath feathers along the neckline of my bodice, his beard whispering against the fabric like the fletch of an arrow through an archer’s fingers.

My eyes snap open.

Fletch.

My hands grip Peeta’s shoulders.  I remember—

The arrow Gale had left in the archery.

“Peeta—”

“Hush,” he murmurs, caught up in our body heat.  “Soon.”

Fear freezes my heart in my chest.  “Stop.  Stop, Peeta!”

“Hm?”  He pulls away, confused, but releases my leg when I shove myself away.  I stumble toward the half-wall, squinting across the bailey to watch as Gale pauses beside an arrow sheath hung up on a post.  He had placed the arrow into that battered quiver just a few hours ago.  Now it hangs empty.  The arrow is gone.

Gale’s hand reaches for the knife on his belt on a reflex that prompts my own.  I mirror it uselessly; my knife is concealed beneath my gown, belted below my knee.  There is no weapon at my waist for my scrambling fingers to latch onto.

“What is it?” Peeta’s hushed voice demands.

“I don’t know.  But it happens soon.  Something—”

Gale turns, a fearsome scowl carving up his features as he sprints for the head table, for Haymitch and Chaff, Prim and my father.  I begin to push away.  I shouldn’t be here.  I should be out there.  Out _there._

And then I hear it – the telltale whistle of an arrow in flight.  I lean over the edge of the wall, tracking it in the darkness.

_Thunk!_

I twitch toward the impact, scan the celebrants for glimpses of the head table set out in the yard, searching for my family.  I find Prim, my father, and the arrow all in one glance.  Peeta’s gaze is only an instant behind mine.  His hand curls around my arm.  We stare at the arrow’s fletch.  It still vibrates at the end of the shaft that protrudes from my father’s chair.  Just a hand’s width from his head.

_No!_

I lunge for the doorway, a scream caught in my throat.  The music continues.  Laughter rolls through the crowd.  How could they have _not heard_ the arrow?

Footsteps along the roof of the stables: the would-be assassin fleeing or taking up a better position for a second attempt upon—

_Papa!_

And then a shriek.

_Prim!_

And a bellow: Haymitch ordering her to get down, calling on my comrades to defend the king.  The music is strangled.  The people murmur with confusion.

I do not see it happen.  I am scrambling around the corner of the stables when I hear it.

A second thud.

A spearhead striking flesh and breaking bone.

I know this sound well.

Peeta tries to hold me back, but I push forward until I can see—

_No.  No!_

The arrow had missed my father, but the Northman’s spear had not.

Prim screams.

The Northmen lurch to their feet, reaching for their axes.

The people frozen in mid-celebration suddenly scatter in all directions as our warriors surge forth, converging on our bristling guests.

Another movement out of the corner of my eye.  At the corner of the stables in the dark.  A man lowering his arm, following through with a spear throw, then turning and dashing for deeper shadows.

I try to give chase but Peeta won’t let me go.  He is too slow, too heavy.  He holds me back.

“Stop!  Katniss, stop!” he hisses.

I struggle as he hauls me toward the wall, wrestling me into the gloom.  “Release me!  That man!  It was his spear!  His—”

Peeta’s hand clamps over my mouth.  “Shh!  I know.  I _know but hush!”_

I claw at his arm, trembling with frustration when my nails encounter the leather bracers I’d made for him.  To protect him.  From myself, apparently.

“Katniss,” he bites out beside my ear.  “You can’t.  It’s not safe.”

I twist to and fro, trying to earn myself a bit of slack in his embrace.  His arms tighten until I can barely breathe.

“Stop fighting me and _think!”_

Think?  What is there to think except that Peeta has allowed the man who’d just killed my father to _escape?_

“That was your arrow!”

I pause, panting against his hand.

His voice is gentler when he continues, “And that was a Norse spear.”  He swallows thickly.  “Everyone has seen me throw a spear.  From a great distance and with accuracy.”

What?  What is he— what?

“Katniss, we were nowhere to be seen when they attacked your father, and those weapons could be ours.”

My blood turns to ice.

“We are not safe here.”

He’s right.  Oh, gods.  He’s right.  I drop my hands from his arms.  I fall against his chest.  I can hear Haymitch ordering the Northmen to drop their weapons.  He speaks in Samish.  Káto and the others will not understand—

“Your brother!” I gasp against his warm fingers.  We cannot stay here when we are needed _there!_  “And Prim!”

“Haymitch will look after them.”

I shake my head.  I can’t let go of my duties.  I can’t—!

He turns me in his arms and chases after my frantic gaze.  “Katniss, look at me.”  His jaw flexes.  His eyes are pure torment.  “We cannot help them now.”

“We can,” I insist, attempting to take a step forward and drag him back to the main yard.  “We can—”

“No.  What is the punishment for treason?  For betraying the king?”  He shakes me once.  “Katniss, if you go out there, they will kill you.”

I shake my head.

“They will kill me.”

My heart breaks.  I can see in his eyes that he is not afraid of his own death.  He is using it against me, wielding it like a weapon.

I sag against his chest.

“Do you trust me?” he whispers.

I can barely sort out my own name from the image of my father slumped in his seat— and that spear— and the blood— and Prim’s scream— and now her wailing sobs and Gale’s shouts and Haymitch’s cursing and the sound of metal implements falling heavily to the ground in surrender and—

“Yes.  I trust you.”  My fingers tighten around his tunic sleeve.  He is the only solid thing in the world.  He is my anchor.  I have to protect him.

He guides me along the fortress wall until we near the dung heap.  “The secret door, Katniss,” he prompts, his voice tight.  Any moment now, Haymitch will instigate a search for my father’s killers… and they will find us.  They will find us and we will look even more guilty for huddling in the shadows and Haymitch will have no choice but to—

_What have I done?_

I don’t want to know.  Not yet.  Not here.

_Peeta._

Yes, I have to make sure Peeta is safe first.  Haymitch will look out for Prim until I can— until I know what to do next.  Until I—  Until… yes.  Until then.

I turn and scramble for the hidden latch nestled between the timbers.  I do not ask Peeta to turn away this time.

The lock gives way easily and with the tiniest of wooden groans.  Peeta pushes the log open and nudges me through.  It is dark outside the fortress wall.  The village is around the corner.  The sound of the timber sliding shut again seems to echo in the fields that stretch between us and the safety of the forest.

But the forest will not keep us safe for long.  They will hunt us.  Gale can track us.

Gale.  The arrow that had been missing from the quiver.  His sudden scowl and charge toward the table moments before—

_Later!_

I grope for Peeta’s hand in the darkness and grasp it tightly.  I need to get us out of here.

Drawing in a deep breath, I pound back my grief and rage and the thousand other flavors of pain that threaten to burst through my skin.  Peeta and I have nothing but our boots, the clothes we are wearing, the knife in his belt and the one strapped to my leg, and the darkness.

We only have each other.

He interlaces our fingers.

I begin our careful, crouching trek through the night, going as fast as I dare, thinking as little as I can.


	55. Piecing Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all of the amazing feedback you guys gave me on the previous chapter, I was able to edit (a.k.a. wrangle into submission) this next part much faster than I thought I could. Yes, this is the Power of the feedback. Feel the power!

(Peeta)

 

A single arrow.  One shot.

A single spear.  One throw.

The king is dead and the two of us are damned.

I turn it over and over in my mind as I try not to stumble over tree roots and rotting logs in the dark.

Our enemy has made a masterful move, utilizing our every act against us.

The weapons demand an explanation: who else would shoot one of Katniss’ arrows and who other than a Norseman would have the skill to wield one of our heavy spears with such precision?  We can protest all we like, but Katniss and I have no proof of our innocence.  Plenty of people had seen us head for the stables from which the attack had been launched.

However, the moment I’d realized this fact had _not_ been the moment I’d given up all hope.  Surely, not everyone would turn on Katniss.  Surely, her people still have faith in her.   But then, as the king had shuddered with his dying breath, as Katniss had charged forward in pursuit of his killer, I’d remembered: “They think you will make us slaves…”

Katniss’ own comrades had expressed this concern not long ago; the people of Samland fear that I will give their country to Harald of Denmark.  True, I had been honored here for one day of brave deeds, but I cannot trust my own good acts to matter now.

My brother – Harald’s heir – has arrived on their shores, commanding a force of experienced warriors, all armed for battle.  And then Katniss and I had welcomed them into the very heart of Samland.  She had escorted them through the fortress gates herself.  And why wouldn’t she?  Katniss is my wife – _willingly_ so – and she’d spent three seasons in my country – also willingly according to the account manufactured by Haymitch – and if her people have not questioned her loyalty before, they certainly will now that it appears what we have brought Samland is not the promised alliance, but a swift invasion.

But all of this pales in comparison to the simple fact that I’d panicked.  I’d convinced Katniss to flee with me rather than stand and receive judgment, and now we are _damned._

The only way out of this is to reveal the man behind these vile acts.  But how?  There are so many questions which beg answers: Who would do this when the king had been relentlessly inching toward death to begin with, and why place the blame upon us?  There’s no doubt that had been the intention: they’d stolen one of Katniss’ arrows and a Northman-made spear and then waited until both of us were unaccounted for before launching their attack.

How had they gotten the arrow from Katniss’ bed chamber?

Where had the spear come from?  One of Káto’s oarsmen or… could a few members of the crew from Norway still be alive?  I’d never even asked.

I should have.

I’ve never felt so stupid.  Katniss and I had bungled right into their trap.  The very thought makes me want to throw my head back and just belt out my rage in one long, gut-wrenching howl.  Someone has gone to great lengths to make us look guilty of conspiracy and murder, and I’d never even seen it coming.  Katniss had seen it – at the very last moment, something had fallen into place for her – but I’d been perfectly happy allowing my wife’s warmth and scent to turn my brain into jelly.

My ignorance and stupidity has cost us everything.

I do not know what fate awaits my brother and his oarsmen.  Or Prim.

I do not know if Katniss and I will even live to see the next dawn.

She has every right to abandon me here in the wilderness.  I’d had this one chance to prove my worth and I’d failed abysmally.  I shouldn’t have made her flee the fortress with me.  Or, no— I should have stayed behind, created a diversion, and let them catch me, taken the blame for both the arrow and the spear.  I should have—

“Stop.”

I jerk to a halt, my chin lifting and arms flying out to maintain my balance.  “What?” I mouth as quietly as her command had been issued.

“Think later.  Walk now.  Quietly.”

“Have I not been?”

She huffs softly.  “Walk and listen.”

She turns around and moves deeper into the forest, her skirts just barely skimming the brush lining our path, her leather boots sifting rather than crunching or stomping through the damp windfall.  Listening to her ghost away from me makes my entire body ache with a hollowness that I’ve never encountered before.

“Katniss,” I breathe, stumbling forward and wincing at the racket I’m making.

She pauses and waits for me to catch up.  I reach out to her tentatively.  “I— Please.  Don’t turn away.”

A tremor runs through her body but she mirrors every shift I make toward her, keeping a persistent space between us: a chasm.  A plea crawls up from my belly and drags itself over my tongue.  “Katniss—”

“No.  I cannot.  We cannot stop.  Yet.  I… I can’t, Peeta.”  She pulls from my tentative grasp and resumes our trek.  “Walk now.”

A curse bubbles up from my stewing misery and frustration.  My hands clench into fists.  My heart pounds.  Bile surges up from my gut.

Am I losing Katniss?  Have I lost her already?

There is nothing to be gained by giving in to panic yet again tonight.  I swallow it back down.  Most of it.

I focus on moving as quietly as I can, following blindly, wondering if my obedience will win me back some small measure of her faith.  No apology could ever be enough for the mess we’re in and I can’t bring myself to insult her with something so petty.  So I bite my tongue.

We encounter a small stream some hours later and Katniss steers us along its banks, far enough away from the burbling water to avoid leaving footprints in the soft earth.  The night darkens to its deepest before Katniss pauses, allowing me to close the distance between us.  As I reach her, she wraps a hand around my arm and maneuvers me toward a moss-covered boulder.

I’m so wrapped up in the feel of her grip – basking in the strength of her grasp and at the same time wondering if she’s going to leave me here or raise a hand to me like Harald’s horrible wife had often done when I’d been a boy in Trelleborg – that I can’t quite comprehend it when she shoves me down onto the massive rock and then curls up in my lap, wrapping her arms around my chest and burying her face in my neck.

My hands twitch once and then I’m blowing out the breath I’d been holding for what feels like hours, clutching her to me in thanks.

She breathes wetly against my collar, her nails clawing against the fabric of my tunic.  I can feel her body relentlessly hardening into living stone as she struggles to contain her fury.

“Katniss,” I murmur into her tangled hair.  She’d left it down for the night-meal and now it is a mess.  I pet the snarled tresses slowly, pausing to massage her scalp and neck and shoulders and then lifting my hand to begin the journey again.  My own voice is strangled with sorrow as I vow, “I’ll catch you.  Let go now.  Let go with me.”

She does.

We weep.

The injustice of it all makes me feel ill.  King Everdeen, who had extended his hand to me, who had given me his trust in the form of his beloved daughter and heir, Katniss, is dead.  I’d never even heard him speak.  Never learned enough Samish to express my gratitude.

Now that will never happen.

Katniss whines softly into my tunic, a mewl of agony which ekes out through gritted teeth.  She fists her hands in my clothing and twists the fabric mercilessly.  I expect it to tear, but it doesn’t.   The woolen weave merely creaks in her grasp.  The soft sounds of her pain call forth mine and I must bite my lip.  I force the tears that spill from my eyes to do so in silence.  I inhale sharply, preventing the snot from smearing in her hair, but there’s nothing I can do to reroute my tears.

“We—”  She hiccups but forces her wavering voice to cooperate.  “There’s a hunting, um, room.  Behind us.  At dawn we will—rest there.  Dark now.  Can’t see.  Perhaps there are animals within now.”

I nod, pulling her closer, rocking us both and ignoring the way the unforgiving surface of the rock makes my already exhausted left leg throb.  My heartache is a far worse pain, so I dismiss the discomfort.

“I am so stupid!” she suddenly hisses.  She clutches my arms from behind, pulling herself even tighter into my embrace.  “I saw Gale.  He made the arrow.  Today.  I saw him!  I thought he is—we will be friends again—but he—he—!”

“He knew,” I finish, remembering the look on the man’s face just before he’d suddenly sprinted from the archery shed toward the tables in the yard.  He may not have shot the arrow or thrown the spear himself, but he had sensed the oncoming attack.  I am certain of it.

Katniss nods miserably.  “Yes.  At that moment.  He knew… and I didn’t.  I _didn’t!”_

She twists away with a snarl, baring her teeth in the darkness as if to snap at the shadows, warning them to draw back from us.  But the shadows do not move.  How can they?  They live inside us now.  In her heart and in mine.  Not even the promise of dawn can banish them.

Katniss angrily scrubs at her face with the sleeve of her gown.  I reach for her arm, wrapping my fingers around her wrist and stilling her.

“Hush,” I choke out.  I’d murmured the same thing only hours earlier as I’d kissed the soft, warm skin of her neck, intent only on coloring her exhalations with quiet moans of approval.  The recollection breaks something deep within me and I have no hope that it will ever be repaired.

I wipe her face gently with my fingers.  My shift sleeves have been tucked into my bracers so I cannot offer her a corner of soft fabric for her tears.  I am failing her unrelentingly tonight.

“I am so very sorry, Katniss.”

“Why?”

I force myself to say it.  “I wasn’t thinking clearly when I asked you to abandon the fortress with me.  Haymitch would have defended us against—”

“Haymitch will kill us.”

“No!” I cannot believe that.  I cannot permit my darkest fears to be real.  “Your people won’t believe—”

“Haymitch will kill us,” she repeats, shaking her head.  “He _must.”_

Could so harsh a law truly govern this land?  There is no assembly?  No vote?

Katniss insists, “If we are there now, we will be dead, Peeta.  My arrow.  Your spear.  From the stables – we were there.  People saw us – we went there and…”  She releases a very deep breath and grimly concludes, “It is enough.”

Enough to condemn us.  Perhaps my panic had been timely after all.  Perhaps, but… maybe… what if…?

I don’t know what to say, so I simply hold her tighter.

“You saved us.”

That point is debatable, but Katniss is alive and for now she is safe.

“Knife?” she grunts out.  “Do you have your knife?”

I nod.  “You?”  I’d watched her strap it to her leg this evening, both loving the evidence of her indomitable spirit and fearing the implications of its concealment.

“Yes.”

I wait for her words, certain there will be more of them.  I cannot help her plan if I do not know what the first step must be.  Katniss excels at drawing that out, defining it, turning a specter into a conquerable foe.

“Gale will find us,” she tells me.  “We will be ready.”

“Is he our friend?”  I feel as if I am still bumbling around in dark, foreign territory.

“Maybe,” she allows… barely.  “We will ask and he will answer.  After that, we will decide.”

I pull her even closer, terrified by the chill in her tone, the rock-hard tension of her body, the fury that turns her to ice.  I hold onto her, willing my warmth to melt her before she cracks and shatters into a thousand shards.

I almost pity Gale.  Katniss will be merciless when we permit him to catch us.  For his own sake, I hope his answers to her questions are good ones.  And if they are not, if Gale has willfully betrayed us…

May the gods be merciful to him because I am certain that Katniss will not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Samland has an older (archaic?) concept of justice (not the modern one where motive is a necessary component of proving someone’s guilt). If there are witnesses and/or physical evidence, that’s enough to convict. In this case, Katniss and Peeta have basically no alibi and the weapons that were used in the assassination were ones that everyone would recognize as theirs. In an era when handcrafted goods were costly and time-consuming to make, personal belongings (including weapons) were very personal and unique, such as Katniss’ arrows... and everyone will assume that Peeta got the spear from his brother.
> 
> (The fact that the spear is described as being Norse-made hints that only a Northman would be able to throw it with any accuracy. After all, where would a Samlander have gotten a weapon like that to practice with? The weight and balance of Samish spears are different. That’s mentioned in Chapter 39.)
> 
> So, yeah, according to the law of the land, Katniss and Peeta are guilty. Peeta’s idea about ferreting out the truth and exposing the real killer is pretty much the only way they can clear their names, but it’s gonna be an uphill battle because the burden of proof is now on them.
> 
> Oh, and Peeta’s brief thought about being denied an assembly and a vote on their guilt or innocence is a vague reference to how criminal courts might have been conducted by Norse people during this era (but again, I have no concrete sources to cite on this).
> 
> Coming up next: Gale’s POV. (Don’t haul him out to a dark corner of the fandom parking lot and beat him senseless yet, okay? Hear the guy out.)


	56. Camouflage

(Gale)

 

It is no secret that I am the best tracker in Samland… which is why Alma is having me followed.

“It’s all part of the plan,” Haymitch had promised, but his hushed tone had meant more than the words themselves.  Even in the seclusion behind the locked doors of the king’s meeting room, he is wary of being overheard.  “I tell you to go out there and find them—”

“Can we trust the others?” I’d interjected, thinking of Mitchell in particular.  He does not react to surprises well.

“No others.  Just you.  Less threatening that way.”  Rather than waiting for me to agree, he’d ploughed onward: “And then you tell Alma what you’re up to so he can send his own boys to keep an eye on you.”

How would this be _less_ threatening?  _The old man can’t expect me to just march Alma’s men up to Katniss for a friendly chat!_   I’d refused: “And when I don’t lead them right to Katniss, they know not to trust me.”

“What makes you think you’ll be the one doing the finding?  Let ‘em chase you all over the damn forest if that’s what it takes.  Kantiss will be watching for you.  She knows you’re coming.  Just make sure you give her a chance to approach you.”

“And then what?”

“Make a delivery, of course.  Oh, and she might have some questions.”

“Questions?  What haven’t you told her, old man?”

“Anything.”  I’d felt my jaw come unhinged.  The scruffy bastard had stood there and smirked at me.  “Oh, yeah – she’s gonna be fury personified, so good luck, grunt.”

Good luck.  Right.  If Katniss doesn’t kill me on sight, she’ll certainly do it after I tell her that I’ve essentially been helping Haymitch to keep her in the dark.

I proceed slowly as the late morning light warms the forest, following a squashed mushroom here, a thread of wool there, creeping further upstream toward the hunting blind my father had shown me long ago.  It is little more than a mucky cavern that he and his boyhood friends – Everdeen and Haymitch – had dug out from between the buried rocks of a natural shelf beside the stream.  They’d even included narrow, horizontal openings – well concealed from the stray gaze of a passerby – through which and arrow might be shot and a deer felled as it pauses to drink.

I crouch down on the pretense of inspecting the faint imprints of a man’s heels in the windfall.  I do not need any further evidence that Katniss and her Northman husband had passed this way.  Once I’d found their trail heading in this general direction, I’d known my destination.  My pursuers, however, are not so familiar with Everdeen’s forests.

Well, they’re Katniss’ forests now.  They _should_ be.

But if she does not act quickly, Alma will move to proclaim himself lord over all of this.

That cannot happen.  It will lay waste to the last year of my life.  What will we have gained if, in the end, Katniss’ return does nothing to put a stop to Alma’s greedy, grasping lust for power?

I sigh.  I’m getting close and I hope I’ve been loud enough to alert Katniss to my approach.  I cannot afford to linger here long or my trackers will catch up to me and reveal themselves.  Alma wants me to think he trusts me.  I cannot let on that I know otherwise.  Standing, I follow the Northman’s trail, obliterating as much of it as I can with my own footprints.  I do not take any special care to remain silent.  I simply have to hope that Katniss will hear me coming.  She cannot let me catch her until I’ve lost my tail.

The bend of the stream turns my steps eastward and the hunting blind comes into view.  Obvious footprints in the soft earth lead away from the area.  In this brief moment when I am concealed from my witless pursuers, I duck down and through the narrow fissure which serves as the cave’s entrance.  I brace myself for a confrontation.

But I am alone.

If Katniss and the Northman had rested here, they are long gone now.  I have enough time to wipe away my own tracks before the hunting party catches up to me.

They don’t even hesitate – don’t even notice the cave – as they follow the Northman’s tracks right out of the area.

Amateurs.

Once they’ve moved on, I sigh impatiently.  _Come on, Katniss.  I know you’re out there, watching._

I wait.

And I wait.

I wait until I can wait no longer.  Soon, the imbeciles bumbling around in the forest on orders to keep me under watch are going to realize that there is no one ahead of them.  Eventually, the trail they are following will dead-end or loop back around: Katniss would not have let the Northman leave such an obvious trail unless it was a ruse.

Perhaps this cave is a ruse as well.

It’s time to find out.

I cautiously emerge.  A hand clamps onto my shoulder.  The blade of a knife coldly kisses my throat.

“Ah, so you were expecting me,” I drawl with a lopsided grin.  Glancing down, I expect to see the Northman’s pale hand on my right shoulder, but instead I’m greeted with a set of muck-covered fingers.  I look to my left, following the slender, moss- and mud-smeared arm holding me at knifepoint.

Had they been standing here on either side of the cavern’s entrance the entire time?  How had I not noticed?  I gape at the creature who holds a deadly weapon to my neck.  Were she to shut her eyes and still her movements, she would become part of the soil-caked, rocky ledge at my back.

Giving Katniss a quick, appreciative scan, I note the unfortunate state of her gown.  No amount of effort from Prim will ever be able to restore it to its previous condition.

As if she senses my thoughts— “Prim?”

“Safe,” I assure her.

“Káto and the others from Denmark?”

“Unharmed.  The council is discussing what to do with them.”

She relays this across me to her equally disguised spouse.  The hand on my shoulder does not relax.

Turning her full attention back to me, Katniss hisses, “You have two minutes to explain.”

“I think you’re overestimating Alma’s trackers.”  It’ll take them at least twice as long to figure out they’ve been duped.

“They are not your main concern at the moment, _friend.”_

Is she actually threatening me?  I believe she is.  “Wait.  You think I was participating in all that last night?”

“You made the arrow.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why?” 

I take a deep breath and explain in one word: “Haymitch.”

Her eyes narrow.  The hand on my shoulder tightens.  I ignore the Northman and focus on Katniss’ next demand, “What about Haymitch?”

We shouldn’t be standing out here in the open discussing this.  While she and the Northman might have some protection thanks to their camouflage, I am fully exposed.  We ought to step inside the cave and continue this conversation, but I can tell from the look on Katniss’ face that she isn’t inclined toward caution at the moment.

So I talk.  “After the battle, when everyone started talking about saluting your Northman, I left the fortress and went directly to Alma on Haymitch’s orders.”

“To do what?”

She is not going to like this next part much at all, but she has known me long enough to be adept at picking out my lies.  I lay it out, matter-of-factly, “To betray you, to gain Alma’s trust so that he would confide his plans to me.  Did you know that he was going to have you killed at your wedding feast?  Haymitch prepared all those gifts for the Chase so that everyone would be keeping an eye on you both… so Alma couldn't get close enough to hurt you and lay the blame on your Northman.”

No, she doesn’t like that revelation at all.

“And you were the one who told him of this plot against me?”  She is determined to have this entire conversation through gritted teeth.

“Yes.  Alma was furious that you were so well-protected the whole day, so Haymitch urged me to give him a suggestion: to wait for the arrival of the Northmen from Denmark before trying it again.  The new plan was to kill a Northman and start a battle.  Then everyone would force them out and back to where they belonged.”

She pauses, thinking it through.  I’m surprised.  Katniss has never been one for strategy before.  “Peeta, too?” she eventually asks.  I don’t like the way she says his name, as if it must be handled gently.

“Yes.”  And when this blasted Northman had finally gone, Alma would have pushed for Katniss to marry his own son, Cray.  Which would have happened over my dead body.  I’d been looking forward to the fight.

Katniss summarizes, “But that’s not what happened.”

“No.  I only realized it when you disappeared.  I went to look for you.  I saw that the arrow was gone, and…”  I am still furious with myself for not seeing it sooner.  “That’s what they’d been waiting for.  They were going to use your arrow.  Cast the blame on you.”

Her wrist swivels suddenly.  The edge of the knife pinches my skin.  After years of friendship, we come to this?  Blatant mistrust?  Her accusation distracts me from the irritation frothing in my veins.  “You made that arrow to mimic mine.  How could you not have known—!”

“It was the signal for the arrival of Harald’s heir!”  That is the truth and she will either accept it or not.  I won’t beg for her forgiveness.  Not when all I’ve ever done has only been meant to benefit her and her family.  “It was him Alma told me would be killed, and I was to place one of your arrows in an empty sheath at the archery shed before the banquet to let him know the target had arrived.  I didn’t know it would be taken and used against you!”

She watches me.  I glare back.  And then she asks me something I had not anticipated.  “Did Haymitch know?”

“I don’t know.”  Who the hell knows what goes on inside that man’s pickled mind.  I’m not going to speculate.  We don’t have time for it.  “So, is there anything else you’d like to know before you decide to either trust me or kill me?”

She checks, “Alma truly believed you would betray me?”

“Yes.”

“After all our years of friendship?”

How can she be so blind?  It is precisely because of our friendship that my betrayal seemed so genuine.  “What can I say?  I’ve never made a secret of my intention to marry you.  It was natural for people to assume that I’d be…” I search for words and come up with many – betrayed, furious, insulted – none of which should cross my tongue at this specific moment.  “… _upset_ by your betrothal, and even more angry when your Northman actually seemed to be finding favor with our people.  Alma believed me when I told him I’d do anything to get rid of him.”

“Would you?”

I can’t believe she has to _ask._   My frustration pours out of me: “Do I wish you hadn’t married him?  Yes.  I do.  Do I like the idea of tolerating a man from the very country that attacked us and took you captive?  No.  I don’t.  But that’s not what this is about.  I’m working with Haymitch on your behalf, Katniss.  Everything I do, I do for you.”

No response.  Nothing at all.  She doesn’t stiffen, doesn’t snarl back, doesn’t even blink.

I push harder.  “Look, if you’re not going to kill me, then at least take the pouch from my belt and the water skin before Alma’s men stumble back this way.”

Katniss doesn’t move to cut the rawhide ties loose.

I drawl mockingly, “Courtesy of Haymitch.”

“Right.  That’s the only reason you’re here.”

“Have you not heard a single word I’ve said?”

“I have.  And so has half the country.”

I wince at the reprimand.  She’s right.  I’ve let my temper ride me from the very start of this encounter.

“Fine.  Send me on my way or kill me.  Just make sure you’re well-hidden when the tracking party gets back.”  I’ll not have all this effort be in vain.  Alma must not get his hands on Katniss.

I wait while she speaks in that damned Norse tongue to her husband and I somehow manage to keep my mouth shut as she replies to his inquiries.  It baffles me that she would defer to this man.  She converses with him as if he is her equal.  Katniss has no equal.  Her father she’d treated with respect.  Haymitch and myself she alternately tolerates and manages.  Her sister she protects and nourishes.  In conversation, Katniss has no equal.  I should know.  I’ve tried hard enough to earn that over the years.

What had this Danish bastard with a lame leg ever done to win her over?

Suddenly, the knife lowers from my throat.  Katniss keeps it in her grasp, though, and I know the stance she uses will brace her securely should she decide to disembowel me.  “Are you Haymitch’s man, then?”

“I haven’t sworn an oath to him.  I fight for your family, Katniss.  First your father and now you.”  The words are not easy to say – with my guard lowered, they make my skin sizzle – but she needs to hear them.  She deserves to hear them.  Although I am not her king, she is my queen, and that has not changed.  I try not to think about who my king is now.

Her eyes harden.  “You would give your life for me?”

“Yes.”

“And would you give your life for Peeta?”

I hesitate.

“Because know this,” she doggedly continues, “the two are one in the same.  If anyone threatens Peeta, I will come between them.”

She means it.  Shit.  I don’t like it, but if this is her choice, I can either abide by it or walk away.  The latter is unthinkable.  I am not a coward and I will not leave our queen to face Alma alone.  I nod.  “Then I would give my life for your husband, Katniss.”

“Peeta,” she repeats, staring into my eyes.  “Say his name, Gale.”

My jaw flexes.  “I would give my life for Peeta.”

The sudden weight of Katniss’ hand upon my shoulder is the only thing that soothes the fury I am fighting to keep contained.  The reprieve shocks me, clears my mind.  “Thank you, Gale.  You are now under our protection.  We will not waste your life or abandon you.”

“Don’t worry about me.  Here—”  I yank the pouch and water skin from my belt and thrust them in the Northman’s direction.  Just as these goods change hands, I hear footsteps approaching in the distance.  Damn it.  “I’ll lead them away, but don’t stay here.”

Katniss nods.

“I’ll send Rory to you after nightfall.  Where?”

“The forest overlooking Undersee’s sheep paddock,” Katniss readily supplies.  “I’ll find him.”

I reach for the bow and sheath of arrows on my back.  “Take these as well.”

She talks over my offer: “No.  Alma is watching you.  You can’t explain why you returned without them.”

She’s right.  When had she become so rational?  The Katniss who’d insisted on meeting the Northmen head-on in our village last year would have gladly taken the risk.  If we’d had but a moment more, I would have remarked on it.

But we’re out of time.

Peeta gestures Katniss away from the cavern at our backs.  I look away as they melt into the brush bracketing the cave opening.  Upon closer inspection, I see that the saplings are actually branches from mature trees arranged in a hunter’s blind.

Today is a day for surprises, it seems: I’m surprised the Northman can move as quietly as he does with that leg; I’m surprised that Katniss would’ve had the patience to teach him how to stalk like a hunter; I’m surprised that the girl I’ve known from a scrawny kitten of a thing is now a formidable woman.

Katniss has become a true queen.

Now all I have to do is make sure she reigns.


	57. Understanding Duty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're entering the trickiest part of the story for me to write. A lot of thinking things have to happen and strategy has to be worked out. Please let me know if something doesn't make sense and I'll either edit it or address it later. I promise! (^_^)

(Peeta)

 

My left leg is a quivering mass by the time Katniss deems it safe enough to rest.  It’s now eventide and every moment of the day had been devoted to our survival.

First, we had satisfied our need for rest.

“Come inside,” Katniss had invited softly, gesturing me into the cavern.   We’d had just enough light from the rising sun to ensure that no creatures of worrisome size had already claimed the hollow for their own.

The earth beneath us had been cool and dry as we’d curled up together, sharing what warmth we’d had between us.

“We cannot sleep long,” she’d warned.

We hadn’t.

A beam of sunlight slanting through one of the narrow openings in the cavern wall had roused us and Katniss had leaped into action, showing me how to create a trail away from the cave.

“Gale will come.  Soon,” she’d murmured as I’d stomped along in her wake, making no effort to conceal my blundering progress.  “We have to catch him.”

“Like a fish?” I’d asked, a smile tickling my lips despite my weariness.

She’d laughed once, softly.  “Yes.”

“I have an idea…”

I’d shared it.

She’d liked it.

So, after Katniss had coached me through doubling back toward the cave without leaving obvious tracks in my wake, we’d spent the morning coating ourselves in mud and moss, setting the trap.

“Who taught you this?” Katniss had inquired as I’d gently dabbed mud onto her face.

“Káto’s mother, if you can believe it.”

“What?”

I’d shrugged.  “She’d never liked me much, but Káto has always been a friend to me.  Whenever he and I played together as children, we risked her discovering us.  I spent much of my childhood hiding from her.  When I got too big to fit in corners and wooden chests, I had to try more, ah, creative methods.  Hiding in plain sight.”  I’d chuckled at the memory.  “Oh, the days I’d returned to my mother covered in dust and ashes so that I could blend in with the shadows and the timbers…”  That had been the only time I’d ever seen my mother truly upset.  Not with me – I’d realized in that moment – no, she’d been angry with Harald’s wife for forcing me to conceal myself, for making me fear her ire.  Perhaps my mother had also been upset with Káto for insisting that we be friends despite the risks.

Sometimes, I’d returned to my mother with bruises.  I hadn’t always been so skilled at camouflage.

Katniss had reached out to me just as my grimy fingertips had slipped from the end of her painted nose.  “Not again.  Never, Peeta,” she’d vowed.  “No one hurts you again.  I promise.”

Our skin painted and clothing muddied, Katniss and I had waited in perfect stillness for the arrival of our hunters.  I shouldn’t have been surprised to see Gale making his way up along the stream, following my heavy footprints.  Katniss had told me once before that he could – and would – track us.

I suppose I’d thought he wouldn’t have dared to be so proficient at it considering the circumstances.

Pressed up against the earthen shelf beside the narrow entrance of the small cavern and concealed behind leafy foliage, I’d shut my eyes and waited in perfect stillness, holding my breath as Gale had shouldered between Katniss and me, disappearing into the gloom within.  Then I’d waited again as men far less skilled and not nearly as silent had followed my trail – the trail Katniss had coached me to create – away from our hiding place.

Minutes later, Gale had emerged.

Katniss and I had struck.

My hand still aches from the strain of trying _not_ to crush his bones to pulp.  This man should have been able to save Everdeen.  He ought to have found a way to protect Samland’s beloved king.  He could have spared Katniss this pain.

He’d failed.

I’d wanted nothing more than to punish him for that, but that is not my place.  It is not my decision; it is Katniss’ and I’d been amazed by how calmly she’d handled the encounter, how succinctly she’d summarized Gale’s explanation to me, how cool and logical she’d been about sending him on his way.

I still do not know if he is our friend.  He’d spoken my name in a tone meant for sacred oaths.  I’m not certain I hadn’t imagined it.

But there’s one thing that must be true absolutely: Alma had been preparing to kill Katniss on our wedding day and Haymitch, through the preparation of a generous amount of gifts and snide urgings for us to make them last until sundown, had seen to her safety.

How had he hidden his own fears under those sarcastic sneers?  I’m tempted to disregard Gale’s confession, but I cannot afford to.  Katniss believes him, which means Haymitch must be capable of something like this: foiling Alma by enlisting the unwitting aid of every guest at our wedding.

I must not underestimate that drunkard a second time.

And I must not forget Alma’s persistence.

Katniss and I are still coated in forest debris as we crowd back into the tiny hollow ringed in trees.  This is the place where Prim had first found us a fortnight and a half ago.  How my life has changed since then.

The thought distracts me from the dried filth which makes my skin pull tight and itch.  The thought of spending all night with my hands, neck, and face covered in grime is enough to drive me mad, but the muted colors of our clothing may be our best defense.

My stomach howls.  Katniss and I had devoured the food Gale had given us – a gift from Haymitch – and I don’t need to ask Katniss’ view on the matter to know that hunting is an impossibility right now.  Whatever we’d kill, we would have to cook and, with the aid of the slightest breeze, someone would be able to follow the scent of smoke right to us.

I hope Rory brings more food with him.  When he comes.  If he comes.

My belly gurgles impatiently.

“I’m sorry,” I mouth when Katniss’ hands find mine in the twilight.  She doesn’t speak.  I know she’s hungry, too.  I sigh out a breath when her grip shifts to my left leg and she begins rubbing the twitching muscles through the muck-crusted fabric of my trousers.

She pauses long enough to press the water skin against the center of my chest until I reach up and take it.  The water will not fool my empty stomach for long, but perhaps it will last for long enough.

“I have not told you everything.”

The confession falls like a stone.  Katniss’ voice is the soft splash in the water and the words themselves sink down into the depths.

“What haven’t you told me?”

She interlocks her fingers and twists them.  Right, then left, back again.  “Alma’s plan of last night.  He told Gale he will kill Káto at dinner.  At dinner yesterday.  That was his plan.”

“What?”  The water skin creaks softly in protest of my sudden grip.

“With Káto dead, you will – must – return to Denmark.”

I push through my sudden, mind-blanking shock.  I need to think.  _Think!_  It is true that if Harald’s heir were dead, a younger son would have to take up the role— “But I’m not…  Harald has never acknowledged me.  He won’t.”  Ever.  “I’ll never be his son.”

Softly, almost reluctantly: “Everyone here believes you are.”

She’s right.  From Alma’s perspective, it is a good strategy.  At least for purging the land of Northmen, but what of retaliation?

“Why would Alma wish to make a war?”  The question escapes me before I can hold it back.  When Katniss doesn’t answer, I mutter, “Harald would send ships to exact revenge.  Samland would be destroyed.  Does Alma wish to rule over ruins?”

Surely not.

Is that why Káto had _not_ been the target of that arrow and spear?  Seated at a table out-of-doors near King Everdeen, my brother had been just as vulnerable as Katniss’ father.  Alma could have easily killed Harald’s heir and the Samish force could have overpowered Káto’s friends and oarsmen, but war would have been inevitable.

Is that the reason why—  “Alma killed your father instead.”

Katniss says nothing in reply and my mind begins to race, leaping from piece to piece as the puzzle comes together.  Káto being killed or threatened by Katniss’ arrow might have enraged Denmark, but that would not have benefited Alma.  Unless Alma had planned to deliver both Katniss and me to Harald in exchange for an alliance.  But if that had been his goal, why hadn’t he gone through with it?

There can be only one conclusion.  Alma’s plan to kill my brother had been a false one, a screen behind which he’d hidden his true objective: the death of the king.

But why would he have to hide his true intention?  Does he not trust his own men?  Or would they have balked at such blatant treason?

I remember the poison Alma had sent to the fortress with his son, Cray, as a gift to Everdeen and Katniss.  Poison is not the weapon of a man who is confident of his followers’ loyalty.

It strikes me then that Katniss and I have this one advantage against him.  The people of Samland adore Katniss.  We can use this to repair the damage done to her standing, but we will have to act quickly.  Alma has placed the blame for Everdeen’s death on us, and in doing so he has successfully removed Katniss from the fortress so that he can further his agenda to become king.  With every passing hour, more and more people might be swayed by his arguments against us.  Katniss and I must intercede while there are still some who do not favor Alma, who wish to believe Katniss is innocent.

I almost share this goal with Katniss, but I hold back.  She can get us inside the fortress.  That is not a problem.  The problem is what we will do after that.  I need more time to think.  I need more information.

I think I’m beginning to know our enemy, but I still have questions.  The first of which concerns the fate of our most likely allies.

“The council is deciding on Káto’s fate?  Not Alma?” I query, puncturing the swelling silence.

Katniss nods.

Well, I suppose the man can afford to be generous now, kowtowing to the tribal leaders in order to gain their favor.  I have to admire Alma’s ruse.  He has both deposed Katniss and initiated a campaign against my brother.  His followers are surely bemoaning their second “failed” assassination even as they urge their tribal leaders to dispose of Samland’s unwanted guests.

I press her: “You don’t believe they’ll just release Káto and the others, do you?”

She lowers her head on a sigh of defeat.

No, I hadn’t thought so.

Wearily, she promises, “We will decide a plan.”

One comes to me.  I speak slowly, “We could go to Denmark.”

“Only us?  Do we leave your brother here?”

She’s right.  We can’t leave.  Not even to get help.  Returning with an army is precisely what Samland doesn’t need and Káto might very well be dead by then.

After a tense moment, I glance at Katniss.  She glares off into the trees in the direction of the fortress from where Rory will likely come.  She whispers harshly, “We must free your countrymen.  That is first.  And then… if they— if my people want my death, I can leave.  It will be the same.  Death or…”

Exile.

So it will be our last resort.  I wonder if we’ll be given enough warning to even make that decision.

“Peeta,” she begins, “you promised.  Your life and your service, here.  We have to stay.  Until they do not want us.  It is our duty.”

I nod.  “I understand.”

“I didn’t.”

My head snaps back toward her.  “What?”

She glares even harder through the trees.  “You asked me in Denmark – stay and marry you.  I said yes.  I knew you are Harald’s son.  I saw it at Trelleborg in morning before we left, the day Gale found us.  And I thought…”

“What?” I press gently, all thoughts of Alma and politics and strategy forgotten.  I’ve never wanted to hear her words more.  But I’ve never dreaded them, either… until now.

“I thought of my duty.  To Samland.  But I didn’t want— I can’t— Káto was kind.  Kolfrosta and the children and— I cannot hurt them.  Never.  In Denmark, I cannot be the daughter of the king of Samland.  If I stayed with you.”  Her mouth twitches into a brief, pained smile.  “I was free.”

Her gaze flickers in my direction.  I have no response to this.  Her lashes lower and she returns to her sentinel.  “I wanted you.  Only you.  But I thought – someday, maybe you will learn the truth.  You will not trust me.  You will hate me.  Your father will believe I want to hurt your family.  He will ask my father’s secrets and I—I—”  She draws in a shuddering breath.  “I risked everything when I said yes to you.  It was wrong… but I do not say I’m sorry.”

It belatedly occurs to me that my mouth is hanging open.  She had truly thought all of this when I’d asked her to be my wife?  She’d really fought through these fears to accept?

I reach for her, gently combing her dirty hair away from her brow.  “I never would have let anyone hurt you, Katniss.”

“But your trust—”

“No,” I argue.  “I would have been angry with you for not telling me the truth, but you will always have my trust.  Always.”

Her head bows.  I curl an arm over her shoulders and draw her into my embrace.

On a murmur, I invite one more confession, “Is that why, when Gale appeared that night, you insisted I come with you?”

She sighs.  “I thought only – you cannot die and I cannot leave you.  It was too terrible.  For one minute, I was free.  I could have you.  And then I couldn’t.  I was the king’s daughter again and I couldn’t have you and—!”

Her voice ends in a choked sob.

I pull her closer.  “You have me, Katniss.  You’ve always had me.  But… why didn’t you tell me who you were sooner?”

She shakes her head, at a loss for words.  “Peeta.  I have to protect my family, my country.  It was not safe.  If I am no one, they are safe.”

“Is that why you waited until we were inside the fortress to tell me?  Because you didn’t trust me?”  I hear the words before I realize they’d been spoken in _my_ voice.  I pause suddenly, holding my breath at my own daring.  Do I really believe she owes me an explanation?

…I do.

She’s my wife and I’m her husband.  Without truth, we have nothing.

I wait for her to inhale and then exhale.  “No.  That is not the reason.”

I brace myself, wondering what could be worse than a dearth of trust.

“I thought – you will not want me.  My father is king and you will not want me.  You will not believe you can be king.  You will give up.”  She lifts her head and searches my gaze.  “I’m sorry.  I did not give you a choice.  I thought – I will show you… _you._   If I have time, you will believe, you will _try…_ but I did not ask.  I’m sorry.”

My first inclination is to assure her that there is nothing to forgive, but I know Katniss well enough to understand that would anger her.  She’d told me once that I ought to be angry with her for taking me away from my home and family.  I think of her defense of both me and my choices to my brother in the dining hall just yesterday.  Katniss believes I am owed this consideration, these rights.

I owe her the truth.  “You were right.  I would not have believed I could do this.  Sometimes, I still don’t.  Thank you for not giving up on me, for not letting me give up on us.”

She snuggles further into my lap, tucking her head under my chin.  The feel of her in my embrace gives my arms their strength and I hold on as if my life depends on it, as if I will never have another chance, as if the world is ending.

In a way, it is: Rory will be here soon.

And then, as if my thoughts had summoned him, I hear a muffled footstep beyond our sanctuary. 


	58. A Terrible Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content edited on June 14, 2013. Katniss gives Peeta a slightly different reason for Alma's plan. End result is the same, though. See, it turns out that Norway is NOT closer to Samland than Denmark is. At least not without some fancy Einstein-ian physics happening. Sorry for the geographical fallacy, friends. m( _ _ )m

(Peeta)

 

Katniss and I both peer through the tangled tree trunks in the fading light, and we both recognize the approaching figure.

“Wait here,” she mouths, pressing a hand to my still-quivering thigh.  “I will watch.  Maybe someone follows him.”

“Take care,” I beg soundlessly.

She brushes her fingers gently over my grime-crusted cheek and then she slips away, surprisingly silent given her skirt, which is stiff and weighted with dried mud.

Keeping silent, I chart Rory’s hesitant progress as he moves through the forest, bypassing our natural shelter without pausing.  He is nearly as quiet as his elder brother.  When she finally makes her presence known to him, she does not bring him into the hollow like she had Prim.  She accepts the parcels he passes to her and listens intently to what news he brings.  My command of Samish is still too weak to comprehend their soft, swift whispers.

I wish I could believe that Rory’s arrival will ease our burdens, but it is far more likely that whatever message he carries will require a response from us.  I think of the wooden game board and the pieces Katniss and I had commanded against Prim and King Everdeen.  I push past the grief over her-their-my-our father’s death to remember how Katniss had only considered the immediate threat, missing chance after chance to circumvent her opponent’s strategy and take control of the field.  I hope she allows me to help her with whatever we must face now.  Certainly, I am not as skilled as Prim and Haymitch at these kinds of maneuvers, but I think I can be of some assistance.

The meeting is brief and soon Katniss is watching Rory head through the forest, taking a meandering route back to the village.  She waits.  Separately, we listen to the soft sounds of birds bedding down for the night on leafy boughs.  Satisfied that no attack is forthcoming and our position is still relatively safe, she returns to me.

“We should eat first,” she says but makes no move to open the just-delivered food satchel.  She stares at the water skin that had been passed into her hands from Rory’s.  If we’re going to eat, we ought to hold it for each other so we can rinse the grime from our fingers.  But, despite our achingly empty stomachs, we have no interest in sustenance.

“Katniss.  Speak, please.”

Her lashes drift shut as she chooses her words with care, opening her eyes only when she is ready.  “Alma wants friendship with Norway.”

“What?  They attacked us just last week!”

“Yes, but Norway and Denmark are enemies.”

I toss my head back in frustration.  “But Norway is further than Denmark!”  Shouldn’t that make them a weaker ally?

“Alma cannot make friends with Harald.”

I do not care for her somber tone.  Not at all.  “And just how does Alma think he’s going to make friends with Sweyn?”

“With a gift.”

“What gift?”  I hear myself say the words even though I think I already know the answer to that.  There could be only one thing that Sweyn would want, one thing that could possibly persuade him to ally with Samland—

Katniss confirms it.  “Alma wants to give them Káto.”

“No.”

“Yes.  The other leaders, from every tribe, they agreed today.  They will send Káto to Norway.  A gift.”

My hands clench into fists.

“Peeta…”  It dawns on me that Katniss is whispering my name over and over again, calling me back to her.  “Peeta, we will stop him.”

“How?” I choke out.  There are only two of us, two against all of Alma’s supporters, two against the decision of the tribal council, two muck-covered fugitives with a pair of knives!  I stare blankly at her, my shock stirring and heating into an unmistakable fury.  “We have no army.  We have no spears or bow and arrows…!  How can we do this, Katniss?  It’s impossible!”

Suddenly, a wide smile illuminates our secluded hollow.  Katniss is grinning at me with unfettered triumph.  “No.  It is possible.  I will show you.  Come.”

She pulls me to my feet and I tramp through the forest in her wake.  This particular trek tugs at my memory.  We’d come this way on that first night, the night Katniss had taken me inside the walls of her father’s fortress.  The night she’d made it impossible for me to bow myself gracefully out of her life.

Yes, I know this trail.  I even remember a particularly twisted pine where Katniss had paused and knelt beside a hollowed out log to—

I gasp, my eyes widening with realization.

Katniss crouches down but I don’t need to wait for her to hold up the items she’d hidden here some twenty days earlier to identify them.

“The bow and arrows,” I muse, stunned.  She’d abandoned them here before we’d commenced with our shadowy assault on the fortress in the dead of night.

Standing, she slings the quiver over her shoulder and tests the bowstring.  “Yes,” she answers simply.

“Why did you leave them here that night?” I ask, marveling.  Have I underestimated her foresight?  “Did you suspect—?”

“No,” she breathes.  “I was afraid.  If someone – if my people hurt you, I will attack.  I will kill.  I won’t stop, won’t think… only act.  To protect you.  I cannot control me.”

“Katniss…”

“Now, too.  I will kill to protect you, Peeta.”

It is too dark for me to meet her gaze in the gloom of true night, but I instinctively know she speaks the truth.  She speaks from her heart.

I drop my gaze, reach out and cover her hand with mine, feeling the angles of the weapon in her grasp.  What a terrible chance we are taking: what a terrible chance Katniss is taking in arming herself with a bow and arrow.

“Promise me,” she whispers, moving forward and groping with her free hand.  Her fingers curl around my bracer-wrapped wrist.  “You will live.  Promise me you will not give up your life.  You will take care.”

What she asks of me is no small thing.  And while I am awed by her ferocity when it comes to my safety and happiness, I cannot passively accept this.  I am her husband.  She is my wife.  Whatever request she makes of me, I am free to make of her, so I do.  “I’ll promise you… if you will swear the same.”

She hesitates for a long moment.  Now that I know what she had been thinking back in Denmark in the moment before she’d promised herself to me, I can guess what horrible circumstances she forces herself to consider now.  Is she imagining a situation in which she must choose her own life over another’s?  Haymitch’s?  Gale’s?  Prim’s?

I open my mouth to retract the condition.  I cannot ask her to allow her sister to die if it comes to that.  Nor can I allow Prim to die in my place.  This oath is too terrible.  Too much—

“I promise,” she rasps.  I can hear the tears in her voice.

“I promise as well,” I swear, damning the selfish part of me that is relieved at hearing her vow.

Now there is no room for error.  I must be a better man than I have been thus far so that no one else will ever be at risk of being hurt, not when I can prevent it.

My wife’s fingers tighten around mine until my knuckles crack and my bones creak.

“Let’s find shelter,” I propose gently.  “We have to eat… plan… rest.”

“Yes.”

Katniss leads me deeper into the woods.  Neither of us speaks until we are crouched beneath the ground-sweeping boughs of a decrepit cedar, drooping with age and battered from an age of snowstorms, wind, rain, and lightning.  We curl together on the carpet of needles.  We hold the water skin for each other so that we can wash our hands.  We eat.  We plan.

As our strategy blooms, I think again of that afternoon spent playing a Samish game at her father’s bedside and I realize how timely my earlier recollection of it had been.  This is a game, too, but one which is far more deadly.  No matter how sound our logic or how certain our plans, there are no guarantees.

I seek Katniss’ hand in gathering darkness.  Tomorrow, we will find out how accurate Rory’s information had been.  Tomorrow, in the light of day, the board will be set and the battle begun.


	59. To the River

(Katniss)

 

Even if I had not been told the tribal council’s decision, it would have been impossible to ignore what my eyes are telling me is true.  From the cover of the thick brush lining the edge of the forest, I count over four dozen figures moving through the fortress gate and through the village: half are my own countrymen, warriors who had once fought for my father but now raise their shields and axes for Alma; the other half are Northmen.

Peeta’s shoulder presses against mine as we wait for the party to draw nearer.  Once they reach the edge of the village, I recognize Káto, Már, Finnr, Johanna, and all the others from Denmark.  Their hands are bound in front of them and anchored to their waist.

But there are six more men I have seen before.  They are Northmen, but I recognize them _not_ from Trelleborg, but from battle.  They are the surviving men from Norway and their hands are _not_ bound.

So Alma had taken hostages after all.  Perhaps for the purpose of ransoming them back to their king.  Or learning their warcraft.  Or had he been considering an alliance with Sweyn of Norway prior to my wedding day?

I’ll never know.  Not because I don’t wish to, but because if I ever have the opportunity to speak with Alma, I know I won’t.  I’ll grab the nearest blade and gut the swine before any words can be uttered and good riddance to his filth.

This is the man who had tried to poison both me and my father, who had plotted to kill me on my wedding day, who had used the likeness of one of my arrows and a Northman’s spear to assassinate my father.

No, I would not mind having Alma’s blood stain my hands.  Not at all.

Peeta shifts beside me and I jerk back to the here and now.  I am not concentrating.

“It’s a brilliant plan,” Peeta whispers, “turning Harald and Sweyn on each other.”

I frown at him.

He explains, “Harald can’t fight two countries at once and he won’t risk losing fighters here when his real enemy is the king of Norway.  Of course, Alma’s gambling that Sweyn will win… and that he’ll remember Samland favorably.”

Perhaps it is a good plan.  All I can think is how I’d hoped that Peeta could convince his father to befriend our small nation.  Am I really any better than Alma?  I, too, had taken a hostage.

Luckily, I am saved from those thoughts.  Our quarry has just arrived at the fork in the dirt path and, rather than take the way to the sea, they turn and head for the river.

Why the river?  Káto’s ship had been anchored off shore.  Unless Káto had somehow conveyed that his ship had been moved?  Or perhaps he had lied about it to delay Alma’s plans?  But no.  The men from Norway are here, so where is _their_ ship?

Haymitch had been told that the raiders had all sailed back to where they’d come from.  I know.  I’d been standing next to him when the messenger had informed us of the Northmen’s retreat out to sea.  But here are the men from Norway and with no one to sail their ship home, it must be here as well, which leaves only one explanation for the misinformation and I do not care for it at all: Alma has men within my father’s fortress working for him.  Spies.  People who lie to us for him.  I grit my teeth in order to bite back my fury.  My fury will not aid anyone other than Alma now.

Alma, that sly, murdering whoreson.  He’d captured the survivors from Norway and hidden their ship along the river all in secret.

The group from the fortress treks around the bend in the road; they’ll soon be out of sight.  I move to follow.  Peeta’s hand shoots out in a silent request for me to hold.  I scowl.  He arches a brow at me and a mote of dust is dislodged from his crusted brow.  He is still covered in dirt and smeared with moss stains.  His beard is matted and his golden hair tangled.  He is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“What?” I mouth.

“Wait,” he mimes back.

I join him in scanning the village before us and then the forest at our backs, listening intently, watching unblinkingly.

Peeta leans in close and murmurs into my ear, “Does Alma expect us to intervene?  Do you think he knows both that Rory met you last night and what he’d told you?  This could be a trap for us.”

I glance at him.  We hadn’t discussed this possibility the night before.  We’d been too exhausted to do more than deal with the immediate dilemma of retrieving his brother from Harald’s enemy.  A trap is likely if Alma knows of Rory’s visit.

Peeta cranes his neck, examining the path.  “This is the road to the river, yes?  Why there?”

“I think because, um, Alma hides the ship there.  The ship from Norway.  Or Káto’s.  Your ships – ocean or river is good, right?”

“Yes.”

I nod, trying to remember exactly how deep the river is, how twisting and craggy and capable of concealing a craft of that size.

“There is a place,” I tell Peeta, staring off into the distance, picturing the rocky shelves and black, swirling water.  “It is not good for fishing.  There are many rocks, trees, um…”  I gesture with my hands, trying to convey the shape of a cove or small harbor.  “A place to hide a ship.”

He nods, following my logic.  “So they will board Sweyn’s vessel there and sail downstream to the sea, then on to Norway.”

“Can six men hold your brother and friends?”  Six men with weapons against twenty-some sounds like a recipe for an uprising.

Peeta replies thoughtfully, “If they are bound to their benches on the deck, yes.  Sometimes slaves are made to row on voyages in such a manner.”

So that’s it, then.  Káto and the others are meant to be the crew.  The real question now is how many of my own countrymen will be sailing with them to Norway to represent Alma’s interests.  How many of my own people I’ll have to kill…

No.  I can’t.

I won’t.

But I won’t let them take Káto, either.

“No one is out here,” I decide, speaking softly nonetheless.

Peeta nods.  “Maybe they are already in the forest beside the river waiting for us.”

I pause.

“Do we follow?  Or is there another place we can board the ship before it reaches the sea?”

I chew the inside of my cheek as I consider our options.  If we follow them to the craggy bend in the river where the ship is undoubtedly tucked away, we will be at an even greater disadvantage.  Peeta and I will have to face two dozen of my countrymen plus six unfettered experienced fighters.  No, we will not be able to intercede before Káto and the others board the ship.  And once the ship is underway, there will be no chance to board it or stop it.  Unless…

My gaze searches up the nearest sturdy tree trunk and into its boughs.  If only I were wearing my leg wrappings – that would make this so much simpler.  With a huff, I release the tentative plan of climbing a tree with boughs that overhang the river.  I might make it up into the branches.  I might even be able to shoot two or three arrows before the enemy realizes they’re under attack, but with this gown, I’ll never make it down fast enough to avoid their response.  Climbing in my shift is out of the question: the fabric is too pale; they’ll spot me before I can even get the first shot off.

So, no heroics from the lofty boughs of the trees.  If my memory serves me correctly, then that leaves us with only one option and it is not a very good one.

“Come,” I urge Peeta, scrambling to my feet.  “Hurry.”

I hope no one is tracking us because we don’t have time to move silently.  There is only one blind bend in the river which conceals the craft from the banks upstream, only one elevated, rocky shelf from which an archer might shoot, and only a narrow window of opportunity when both align.

Peeta and I are both panting slightly, faces scratched and hands stinging from slapping branches of new foliage out of our way, when we come to the edge of the woods.  He reaches out to a prickly bush unsoftened by greenery and pulls it aside to let me pass.  As I do, I pull my bow from my shoulder and crouch, inching toward to the edge of the outcrop.

Lying flat upon the rough, uneven stone, I peer upriver.  The fearsome, arching prow bobs gently, moving closer and closer.  The bow of the ship obscures my view of its occupants and I won’t have a line of sight to any of them until they are nearly beneath me.  I bite my cheek as I scoot back away from the ledge and, kneeling, nock my first arrow.

“Peeta?” I whisper.

“Here,” he answers from the brush.

Yes, he is here and safe.  I force myself to concentrate.  The river quickens far below me at the bend, cutting deep and moving swiftly.  Two arrows.  That’s all I’ll have time for.  They will have to be enough.

I draw the string back.

I wait.

The ship’s bow dips, catching in the swift current.  The river pulls it closer, tilts it, gifts me with a brief, clear view of—

Ship’s rudder.  A man beside it.  Norway.

_Fire!_

Reach – fletch – nock – draw—

A splash as the body of the man at the rudder tumbles into the river.

The unsteadied ship lurches.  Men scramble for handholds.

Oarsmen, seated, bound.  Ropes connecting their wrists to some sort of anchoring device in the ship.

Ropes.

_Aim—_

_Fire!_

_Thunk!_

The ship jerks again, banging into the rocks.  I think I see Finnr fall back off of his bench – it was him my arrow had cut loose.

And now they pass beneath the rocky shelf.

I would have held my breath if I hadn’t been so intent on following their progress.  I stumble along the small rise, squinting to get a glimpse of the vessel before it turns again and the stern blocks my view.

Finnr at the helm.  A sharp wrench of his arm.  Arms flailing and bodies falling against the hull.  Shouts rising like gulls’ cries over the hungry rush of the river.

Peeta’s hand finds mine.  He squeezes my fingers briefly and then lets go, giving me room so that – if needed – I can shoot again.  I wish I could but it’s too late.  The ship has turned, the distance is too far, and the current unpredictable.  I’ve done all I can do.

“Did you do it?”

“I don’t know.  Finnr is free.”

Peeta grins.  “Is there a harbor along the way?  A landing?”

I nod.

“Let’s go.”


	60. A Tentative Alliance

(Peeta)

 

When I stumble out onto the bank of the river and see only familiar figures guiding the ship, my enthusiasm bursts its chains of uncertainty.  I beam.  I wave.  I turn to Katniss, throw my arms around her, and squeeze her to me – bow, quiver, mud and all.

“I knew you’d find a way,” I praise softly through the great smile which nearly halves my face.  “There’s no one more skilled in times of urgency.”  And this time she’d truly outshined even my best expectations.

I’m in awe.  The cliff.  The arrows.  The timing.  Watching from the trees, I’d been mesmerized by her.  Her body – so still she might have been made of stone.  Her spine – arched like the trunk of a tree stretching upward to the sky.  The bow, her hands, her arms, the arrow – its point winking in the sunlight like the sharp beak of a raven.

Again, Katniss becomes more than she seems, more than mere mortal.  And yet she has consented to be mine.

“Incredible,” I declare, heart in my throat.

Of course she is compelled to argue: “But I do not think – um, of the future – well.”

She might see that as a weakness, but I see it as something I can give her, something I am proud to be able to do for her.  “I do.  We are good partners, you and I.”

“We are.”

“And I suppose you two are wanting to take credit for the downfall of these poor wretches?” Finnr calls out, tilting his chin toward the bodies sprawled on the deck.

“No,” I answer, stepping away from Katniss and catching the line Már tosses at me.  “You can notch your own ax for those.”

“Don’t think I won’t!  Remind me to tell you how I turned the ship to knock these dogs down, scooped up an ax from the deck, cut the others loose with a single strike and…”  He shrugs eloquently.

I laugh.  “I’d ask for the story later, but I think you just told it to me.”

“Bah,” he scoffs.  “I’ll not deny you the details no matter how many times I may have to relive it!”

And he’s clearly not disappointed at the prospect of telling his hero’s tale over and over again.

Johanna belts out, “And don’t you dare leave out the part where I knocked that stinky one down before his ax could find your belly!”

Finnr’s laugh is so loud it completely drowns out the rushing water in the distance.  “Scowl all you want, but I know you enjoyed felling him.”

“Hah.  You didn’t smell the wretch.”

Smiling, shaking my head at their dramatics, and keeping the line taut, I fumble backwards toward a sturdy tree.  As I do, I scan the deck of the ship from bow to stern… and let out a breath of relief when I see a pair of Samish men tied to the mast.  They appear a bit scuffed, but otherwise unharmed.  Just from a glance, I can see that these men are hardly fighters.  It would be no great feat to dispatch them – like cutting down children.  As such they are not worth the trouble of cleaning up their blood and guts from the longboat.  I doubt Katniss will see it that way, but I’ve no interest in explaining it to her.  I’ll let her think they were spared out of consideration for us.

As soon as the hull drags upon the river silt, Káto vaults over the side and splashes up onto the bank.  I hurriedly tie off the line and limp over to Katniss.  My brother will reach her first, and I do not know what to expect from the fierce scowl upon his face.

“You,” he grunts, standing toe-to-toe with Katniss.  I grit my teeth as my leg protests the jog I force it to perform.  “You shot the steersman?”

She squints.  Her shoulders are tense.  “The man at the back.  Yes.”

“And you nearly hit Finnr.”

“I hit my mark and _only_ my mark.”

A pregnant pause follows.

I reach my wife and stand beside her, ready to come between her and my brother if need be.

Káto snorts, a reluctant smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.  “So.”

Her brows twitch.  She looks rather pleased with herself despite the fact that she’s still glaring at him.

He shrugs a shoulder and nods toward the ship.  “The Samlanders are all yours.”

She doesn’t thank him just as he had not thanked her.  Perhaps they consider their debts to each other paid in full now.

“What do you want us to do with these jesters?” Finnr calls to Katniss.  Johanna laughs screechily at the apt description.

“Bring them here, please.”

An expectant silence swells to encompass the bank and longboat.  The pair of men – Alma’s representatives to Norway – are shoved over the side of the ship and dragged through the water.  Katniss does not ask that they be treated gently.

They are placed before her and stand shivering in the wake of their fear.  The battle aboard the ship must have been brief but vicious.  I’m sure these men will never forget a moment of it.  Not for as long as they live.

For a long moment, Katniss says nothing.  She simply looks at them, studies them, weighs them.  My brother’s oarsmen busy themselves with rinsing off the gore from their hands while Káto looks on pompously.  Preoccupied or not, every pair of eyes tracks the eerily still, breathlessly silent scene.

Finally, when Katniss does speak, her voice is low, soft, deadly.

When she mentions Alma’s name, both men stiffen with fear and she nods once, permitting them to utter a few words, perhaps in their own defense.  She poses a question.  They each shake their head.

And then… silence.

The force of Katniss’ stare presses against their shoulders, hunching their backs.  These are grown men and yet they dare not defy her, their would-be queen.

Katniss barks out a sharp command, startling her countrymen who look to each other and then hastily crouch down to remove their leather footwear.  They hand them to Katniss and watch as she strides to the river and tosses them into the frothing current.

Then, eyes flashing, she commands them.  I hear “friend” and I hear “fortress.”

Her words ring out like thunder claps.

I watch with the others as the Samlanders take a few hesitant steps away from the river’s edge, wincing as their bare feet encounter sharp rocks and knotty sticks.  They eye me warily as if I might, at the slightest provocation, snuff out their lives with a fist or a blade.  When I stare impassively back, they proceed with less caution, limping into the forest.

“So that’s justice as dispensed by the queen of Samland?” Már mutters derisively.  Káto watches Katniss for her reaction.

“I am not queen.”

I frown.  “Aren’t you?”

She shakes her head.  “Until my father’s killer is—is—”  She pauses to take a deep breath.  Her voice is low and wobbly.  The tears weigh her down and wreck her balance but she battles through them.  “Until everyone knows – Alma killed him – I am not queen.”

I know nothing of Samish ascension rites, but now is not the time to ask for a lecture on the subject.  “Then we must prove his guilt,” I conclude.

Katniss remains unmoved.  I suppose that had been a rather obvious point for me to have made.  Of course she’ll want to establish Alma’s guilt and our innocence.  Unfortunately, I don’t know how to prove that Katniss and I hadn’t attacked her father when we’d been inside the stables.  People had certainly seen us heading in that direction, hand-in-hand, grinning and flushed with anticipation, but I remember hearing footsteps _on the roof._   Unless someone had seen the killer on the rooftop, Katniss and I will still be under suspicion.

“I must trust Haymitch,” she declares.  When Katniss glances at me, I see in her eyes that she had not misspoken.  Every word had been carefully selected.  We must trust Haymitch because we cannot shed the accusation of murder on our own.  We need help.

We need Haymitch.

But can we trust him?  Truly?

“Katniss…” I protest softly, lowering my voice.  “Gale said— Alma told his followers of his plan to kill, um…” _–my brother._  

Her brows twitch.  I don’t have to finish the sentence: she understands.

I clear my throat.  “Obviously, it was a clever ruse to get close enough to kill your father, but Haymitch did not prevent it.  Are you certain we _can_ trust him?”

“No,” she admits, “but I must hear his words from _him._   Not Gale.  Maybe Gale does not know everything.”

“All right,” I concede.  “Will we draw Haymitch to us, then?  Or enter the fortress?”

As she squints, considering our options, another factor rises to the forefront of my mind.

“Those men will reach the fortress ahead of us,” I predict, glancing in the direction they’d gone.  “Alma will be warned that his plan didn’t work.  He’ll be expecting us.”

Katniss shakes her head.  “No.  These men have families.  A wife and children.”

A moment passes before I understand what she’s trying to say.  Disgust twists my features: if Alma is the kind of man who would punish another by harming a member of a person’s family, then he has no business ruling.

“What did you say to them?” I ask softly, allowing my curiosity to take the reins for a moment.  Káto still stands nearby.  His oarsmen are now slowly milling about, either securing their weapons or draping a spare sail over their victims to keep the bodies from being discovered by birds.  Provisions are being lazily counted and restocked.  Everyone is straining to catch our words although no one is as blatant about it as Káto.

Katniss answers without shame or caution, indifferent to Káto’s close proximity and the sidelong look Johanna is sending us from where she kicks and shoves the bodies into a pile on the deck.  “I said – they remember my father.  They served him.  Now they serve Alma and that is the reason my father is dead.”

I’m almost glad I hadn’t understood Katniss’ speech earlier.  Each word had been chosen to cut fast and deep and then _twist_ into the guts of the recipient.

“I promised – his honor and courage—”  She lifts her hand as if making a vow.  “—it was not your spear.  Not my arrow.  I asked them – who killed my father?  And I asked – who do you choose to become your king?  I said – they failed Alma’s order.  I asked – do you have family?  Who will Alma attack?  You or them?”

Her calculation steals my breath.  I’ve never known Katniss to be so cold, so ruthless.

“And I took their shoes.  They will feel pain, but they are free.  Free to go home.  Free to choose Alma.  If they are wise, they will return to the fortress late.  After we win.”

Without any sort of covering on their feet, the journey from here to the road will be painful.  I wince in sympathy.  But then my gut clenches as I think of Alma’s reaction to their failure.  They risk their family’s lives if they return to the man while he is in power and are forced to explain why all of their master’s Norwegian friends are dead.

Katniss’ strategy is staggeringly harsh.  A true choice.  The consequences of which are placed squarely on both men’s shoulders.  They must decide their course together… and then they will spend however many days it takes for this power struggle to be resolved warily watching the other to make sure neither decides to betray his comrade in hopes of gaining favor with their master.

I can only shake my head.  I’m still in awe of her.  What Katniss has done in turning those two men into both tentative allies and possible rivals – in giving them a choice as to their fate – Katniss has offered them a terrible conundrum.  The loss of a limb might have been kinder.

But she has bought us time.  We must not squander it.  If we do, it will be the wives and children of these men who will pay the price.  I can’t allow that to happen.

“Haymitch would be proud,” I finally say, chilled on her behalf.

Her shoulders slump.  She sighs heavily.  “I know.”

“Hm,” Káto grunts.  Approval radiates from him.  “Perhaps you will not be a complete waste as a queen after all.”

“Thank you, friend Káto.”  I’ve never heard her tone flatter.

My brother laughs.

Katniss adds, “Now, when I offer help, you will say yes?”

“And what assistance would you give me now?”

“I will say – go to your ship.  Take this one as well.”  She gestures to the Norwegians’ craft.

“And _I_ will say that you ought to come with us.  Come to Denmark.”  Káto gives my wife a surprisingly sincere and considerate look.  “King Harald will welcome you – both of you,” he insists, shifting his gaze to me.

Katniss’ hands fist.  “My father is dead.  If Harald is dead, do you leave your home?”

Káto is taken aback by the venom in her hissed words.  “No,” he replies abruptly, honestly.  “I would seek revenge.”

“That is my answer.”

Something flashes in my brother’s eyes.  Respect, perhaps?  Anticipation?  Of what?

“Go to your ship.  It is not safe here,” Katniss stubbornly repeats.

Káto’s eyes narrow.  “And let you and my little brother take on all your enemies between the two of you?  No.  You are only one woman, Katniss, and I just heard you say how you do not even trust your own allies.  You cannot protect Peeta.”

I am surprised by Káto’s argument and doubly surprised when Katniss does not even attempt to counter it.

Káto glances back over his shoulder at his oarsmen.  “Will some of you follow me back to the fortress to aid Peeta and Katniss?”

“No!” I interject.  “You don’t understand.  That was Katniss’ arrow they used to attack the king.  Both she and I are under suspicion of treason—”

With a haughty arch of his dark blond brows, Káto retorts, “All the more reason for me to come with you.”  Calling toward the ship, he invites, “Are there any volunteers?”

Finnr boldly nods once.

Már’s mouth pulls into a moue of reluctant satisfaction before he raises his arm.

Johann grins, hoisting an ax in salute.  “Sounds like a good time will be had by all,” she informs us.

A forehead tilted forward – from Kolskeggr – and a pair of shoulders belonging to his brother, Ragnfastr, are shrugged.

Káto now has his team.

I sigh.  With my brother tagging along, Katniss and I won’t be able to enter the fortress while the sun still shines.  We’ll have to wait for nightfall, and even then I doubt Katniss will want to show them the secret entrance in the fortress wall.  I have no idea what our next move should be.  Given that uncertainty, it would be best to—

“Bring supplies for at least a day,” I warn him.  “We can’t risk a fire so close to the fort.”

Káto begins directing his crew.  The others are ordered to steer Sweyn’s ship to the delta of the river and transfer the provisions to Harald’s, but a small kernel of an idea sticks in my mind.

“Wait,” I bid him and, turning to Katniss, confirm, “we are going to enter the fortress?  Is that our goal?”

She bites the inside of her cheek and I watch her think, tracking her thoughts as her eyes flicker and her expression twitches just ever so slightly.  “There is no hiding place inside.  We are trapped there.  Maybe… a house.  In the village.  Gale’s mother.  She will give a message to Haymitch.”

“And if Haymitch does not come to us?”

She sighs.  We both know the answer to that: she’ll seek him out in the fortress.  We’ll need a way inside, but how are all eight of us going to pass unnoticed?

“The signal fire,” I supply aloud.  Yes.  Yes, that will work.  In addition, it will irrevocably foil Alma’s plans for befriending Sweyn very nicely.  “Here, listen,” I ask of both her and my brother.  “Send this one ship out to sea, as Alma expects, leaving yours moored by the shore.”

“What?”

I ignore Káto’s scowl and aim my next question at my wife.  “Will the men in the watchtowers be able to see into a passing ship clearly?”

Katniss shakes her head.

With renewed vigor, I continue, “So they’ll see what they expect to see.”  To my brother, I advise, “Tell your crew to sail for Norway but turn around in the night and return to Samland’s shores by morning.  Have them leave the bodies of Sweyn’s men on the beach and make _as if_ to send a raiding party.  The signal fires will be lit – that will be _our_ way into the fortress.”  In the chaos, it will be less likely that someone will notice us.  And, in addition— “Everyone will know that Alma’s plan has failed.”

My brother actually seems to be considering the merits of my idea.  “And then?” he prompts.

“And then take _both_ ships and sail west toward Denmark.”  I turn to Katniss.  “Everyone will realize that once news Káto’s near-abduction reaches Harald, he will be very angry with Alma and Samland.  Your people will need _you_ to protect them.”

Katniss is already shaking her head yet again.  “I cannot give them fear, Peeta.”

“It’s not fear,” I cajole even as I recognize that it is a very fine distinction I’m making.  “We can give them a peaceful alliance.”

“Alma is very good at words,” my wife reminds me.  “He will not give up.”

“Neither will we.”

“It’s a good plan,” Káto declares.  “After they dump the bodies on the beach and the fires are lit, I’ll have the ships drop anchor a day’s journey west and hold position there.  Not too close to be seen, but not too far away to be useful.”

Katniss sighs.  “More lies.”

He scoffs.  “It’s not a lie.  Do you really think I’m just going to let that swine, Alma, live the rest of his days in peace after what he tried to do?”

Both Katniss and I gape at Káto.  He’s right, though.  He can’t let the threat go unanswered.

My brother gives me a fierce look and says flatly, “I don’t like it – how Katniss brought you here and used you – but if that wretch becomes king, it’ll be war.”

“Káto…”  Where do I begin to respond to this?  “Katniss didn’t use me—”

“I did.”

What?

She meets my gaze unflinchingly.  “Peeta, I cannot have you because I want you.  I can have you if my people want you.  If they want the things you can give them.  That is the reason.  I used you.”

I shake my head in both denial and acceptance.  “You did what you had to do so that we could be together, Katniss.  I understand that.  It’s all right.”

Káto growls softly.  He is visibly exasperated with me, so I challenge, “Can you really expect people to welcome a useless king?  Katniss and I have promised them friendship with King Harald.  That’s the extent of my usefulness to them.  That’s what they need.”

My brother blows out a breath through gritted teeth.  “You do not understand—”

“I’ll learn.”

“You’d be better off leaving all this behind—”

“Are you with me or against me?”  Really, that’s what it comes down to.  Part of me is trembling; I’ve never before dared to give my brother such an ultimatum.  “Katniss is my wife.  These are my people now,” I remind him softly, “and I’ve given them my oath.”

At least, he relents.  “Then I’d best help you fulfill it.”

With a glower and an impatient gesture of his arm, Káto sets everything in motion.  Johanna and Már and the others quickly prepare packs for the trek, slinging them over their shoulders or tying them around their waist.  The final duty of those left behind on the riverbank is to shove the hull of the ship out of the silt.

Katniss and I find ourselves watching the ship continue on its way downstream as we stand beside my brother and five of his friends, all armed and ready for anything.

“Now we follow you, One-Day-King Peeta and Not-Yet-Queen Katniss,” Finnr announces with a playful bow.

When Káto doesn’t refute the declaration, my wife and I share a look.  We now have six lives to guard in addition to our own.  I recall our promise to each other the night before.  It weighs heavier than ever upon me.  I’m not ready to take command, to risk another’s life on our behalf.

Katniss reaches for my hand and answers Finnr’s declaration with a somber look and a nod.  An understanding passes between my wife and the friends who have sailed to these shores.  That easily, it seems we have finally managed to form an alliance between Samland and Denmark, but when I meet Káto’s recalcitrant scowl, I am forced to amend that insight: we are allies… _for now._


	61. Darkness Falls

(Katniss)

 

_Now what?_

I swallow down a huff of irritation as we approach the brush-clogged border between the forest and the valley.

What am I supposed to do with half a dozen Northmen shadows?  Keep them from getting killed, obviously.  This should be Peeta’s duty, but the wide-eyed look of panic he’d tossed my way upon Finnr’s jovial vow had spoken clearly: he is not prepared to lead.  As a slave, Peeta had never been held accountable for anyone other than himself.  I cannot expect him to shoulder this burden, but that doesn’t mean I relish it.

Sighing, I blithely think, _I should have just let the Norwegians have them._

Suddenly, Káto throws out an arm to stop me from approaching the daylight beyond the edge of the woods.  “Just so we’re clear: I’ll not let you risk Peeta’s life for the sake of your own or anyone else’s.  He’s coming home with me before I’ll allow him to be hurt.”

The ultimatum does not surprise me.  His scowls have said as much.

Peeta stomps to a halt, turns, opens his mouth—

But it is me who speaks.  “Agreed.”

I shiver, the weight of my wager turning into a lump of ice clinging to the flesh and bones between my shoulder blades.  If I endanger Peeta, I will lose him.  If I lose Peeta, I’ll lose myself.

“If I _agree_ to return to Denmark, then Katniss comes with me,” Peeta adds hotly, annoyed at hearing his fate being discussed as if it were ours to decide.

Káto nods, and when Peeta turns away, his brother’s gaze meets mine.  We share a look, a thought, an understanding.

We owe each other, Káto and I.  Or perhaps it’s more of a dance than a debt – a balancing act and Peeta is our fulcrum.  With a pair of arrows, I’d put the odds in Káto’s favor earlier today, and not just for Peeta’s sake.

There are many reasons for keeping Káto alive and safe: to please Peeta, yes, but also to thwart Alma and perhaps gain a temporary ally… but I hadn’t been thinking of any of those as I’d aligned my first shot.  I’d thought of Birga and Hrefna and little Vetr.  I couldn’t have left Káto’s family bereft of him.  No matter his opinion of me – which is clearly poor – he loves his children as my father had loved my sister and me.  I couldn’t have let him be taken to his father’s sworn enemy to be held hostage or killed.

I couldn’t have let those children suffer such heartache when I had the power to stop it.

I don’t share this with Káto; he doesn’t want to hear it.  Káto doesn’t need to understand my true motivation for helping him.  He can believe I came to his aid to stop Alma from using him for his own agenda.  That’s fine.  Nor do I need to ask why Káto refuses to let me take his brother inside a fortress filled with people to whom we must answer.

I’ll not deny Káto his role as Peeta’s brother.  I am Peeta’s wife, but I am also the heir to my father’s kingdom.  It infuriates me that I cannot place my husband’s wellbeing above all others.  I am denied this fundamental right.

Still holding Káto’s gaze, I lash out through gritted teeth with a heated reminder, “And you must remember: the people you kill are _my_ duty.”

“So who _can_ we kill, lady?” Finnr charmingly inquires of me, leaning forward from where he lounges irreverently against a tree.

“No one.  Until I speak to Haymitch.”

He heaves out a put-upon sigh.  Johanna rolls her eyes.  Már scowls.  The other two Northmen look aggrieved.

I don’t care.

Peeta waits for me to arrive at his side before reaching for me.  A single caress from his hand down the length of my arm soothes my jagged nerves.

“How shall we contact him?” Peeta asks softly, bending his head toward me so that his breath massages the shell of my ear.

I lean against his warmth even as I tilt my head away from his tempting lips.  “I must trust Gale.  We will wait for darkness.  Then, go to his mother’s house.  Posy or Vick or Rory will take a message to Haymitch.”  It is still not ideal – the village is no place to hide for any length of time and it will be impossible to defend a small, earthen cottage from an attack – but it is better than allowing ourselves to be caged inside the fortress.  I cannot risk revealing the secret door, not with the place overflowing with representatives from the tribes, not with so many conflicting agendas mingling, awaiting a spark to ignite civil unrest.

When Peeta merely nods his acquiescence, I frown.  I realize I’ve yet to ask him— “You are not angry?  About Gale?  Alma said – his plan was to kill Káto and Gale helped him.”

Peeta sighs.  “Gale is not loyal to me.”

_He is now._   I choke back the words because I cannot be sure that they are true.  I want to trust Gale.  I still have doubts, but the fact of the matter is that I can neither clear our names _nor_ avenge my father’s death without some help.

“And Haymitch?” I press.  I’m still unsure what end it is he works toward.

“I believe he loves you,” Peeta replies, “but I might be wrong.  The ways of your country are still new to me, and I’ve only known him a short time.”

I search for words, but my thoughts are too layered and complex for me to boil them down to any of the simple statements I’ve mastered in Norse.

“He must have had some motivation for allowing Gale to continue encouraging Alma, but I cannot imagine what it might be.”  His blue eyes are fierce with his thoughts and his arm slips around my waist.  “He could have aided Alma while you were held captive in Denmark, but he did not.  It makes no sense for him to betray you now that you are home.”

Yes, Haymitch had had ample opportunities to settle himself comfortably into the throne.  Or even choose a young and malleable candidate through which he could rule.  He might have encouraged Prim and Rory to wed and then kindly “advised” them in their duties to the realm.  And yet he’d done nothing of the sort.  He’d concealed my disappearance and helped me present Peeta to our people in the best possible light.

Those are not the actions of a man who hungers for power.

But I won’t know for sure until I can ask him.

The day passes slowly.  I spend it tucked in Peeta’s arms as he reclines against a sturdy tree, one hand on his knife and the other upon my thigh.  I keep my bow in hand and an arrow nocked.  We speak softly to each other and sparsely with his friends.

The Northmen are restless, but they do not complain.  I track the slow descent of the sun, sharing the water skin with my husband and waiting for darkness to fall.  I lose count of the number of times my gaze collides with Káto’s, clashing like a pair of boulders striking each other in a landslide.  Neither of us looks away in fear.

Finnr offers Peeta and I portions from his own pack at eventide and I pray I won’t ever have to choose between Peeta’s life and this man’s because I know who will receive my aid and no amount of kindness could ever change that hard fact.

In the deep dark of true night, I lead our company from the woods, through the meadow ringing the paddocks and sheds.  We lurk in the shadows of huts and cottages as we wend our way through the village, approaching Hazelle’s home with caution.

I only have to knock once before the door is yanked open and small hands pull me inside.

“Took you long enough.”

I look up from Posy’s smiling face and Vick’s smirk.  There, beside the hearth where Hazelle is boiling a fragrant stew, sits my mentor.


	62. Ode to Nightlock

(Katniss)

 

“We’ve been expecting you, dumpling.”  Haymitch tips his head back, irreverently sucking down the dregs of his flask and looking as if he hasn’t a care in the world.

It’s all I can do not to shoot him where he lounges.

I plant my feet, centering myself between him and the seven people I’ve sworn to protect.  I draw back my arrow but keep it pointing toward the hard-packed dirt floor.  There’s no need for me to level the point upon his chest.  At this distance, I won’t miss regardless.

“Give me one good reason to trust you.”

He slowly sits forward, scanning me with jaundiced eyes.  “All right,” he finally agrees.  When he nods for Hazelle to take her kids outside, she does, pausing only to pat my shoulder in passing.

For a long moment, no one moves.  It’s eight against one and yet Haymitch doesn’t look the slightest bit concerned, either because he really does have a good reason or because soldiers from the fortress are even now closing in.

“Well, sit down and eat,” he invites with a mocking imitation of a courtly gesture.

I cannot bring myself to turn my back on him.  No one makes a move toward the pot.

Haymitch heaves a sigh and points to the bench opposite his.  “You’re gonna want to be sitting down for this, dumpling.”

Because I can shoot him just as easily seated as I can standing up, I accept.  Peeta sinks down onto the block of wood beside me.

I cannot imagine what Haymitch could possibly say to mend the rift between us.  There are no words charismatic enough.  There is no logic solid enough.  There is no argument persuasive enough.  There is no reason valid enough.  There is no circumstance dire enough—

“Your father took the nightlock potion, Katniss.”

Except for that.

My grasp tightens round the fletch of the arrow until my fingertips and knuckles throb.

I stare at him, jaw locked and throat filling with horror.  The nightlock berries have the power to keep a man or woman going long past the point of their endurance, numbing any agony and exciting any heart no matter how weak or weary, but at a great cost.  The effects last for more than a day, usually two but rarely three, and then as they fade they take their toll.  The price the nightlock potion demands of those who are desperate enough to turn to it is no less than every last ounce of strength the human body possesses.  None have ever survived a bargain struck with those berries.

I grope for words.  “He was never going to recover.”  My breath gives the realization about as much substance as a ghost.  I feel as if a breeze could pull me apart.  Disperse me like a puff of smoke.

“I’m sorry.”  And Haymitch does sound apologetic.  He and my father had been friends since childhood.  Haymitch had sworn his life and service to him on the day he’d come of age.  They were lifelong companions.  Of course he is sorry.  Of course he grieves.  How could I have ever doubted this man’s dedication and fortitude?

“He took it willingly,” my mentor continues.  “This was what he wanted – his final gift to you and his countrymen.  He wanted to show them he approved of you completely at your wedding, but he didn’t have the strength for it.  Not without... assistance.”

I shake my head.  I wish I could deny it, but I know the truth when I hear it.  My father’s sudden cheer and energy at my wedding feast after days of unrelenting deterioration – only nightlock could have managed such a feat.

Of all the stupid, reckless, idiotic—!

My fingers curl until my fisted hands bristle with white knuckles.  I would have rather spent another day or two or ten with my father, watching him slowly fade away, than allow him to make this sacrifice.  It is too much!

And if I hadn’t been born the daughter of a king, perhaps I would have been given those additional days, but as always the needs of our people come first.  The safety of the heir comes first.

My wishes are irrelevant.

Haymitch draws a deep breath and leans even heavier upon his elbows.  “There’s more.”

Of course there is.  I glare at him until he speaks.

“Your father and I knew Alma was planning his death – not Káto’s.  No matter what he was telling everyone, grumpy-face over there was never his target.  Alma knows he’d gain nothing but retaliation if he harmed Harald’s precious heir.  But making it look like you – the favorite to take the throne – had conspired with the enemy to kill a beloved king…”  Haymitch doesn’t have to lift his brows to make his point.  “We always knew who Alma’s real target was, so when buttercream’s relations washed up on shore, and with Death staring your father right in the face, we went ahead and—”

“Offered it to him on a platter?” I bite out, lacing each word with the tang of poison.  My mind feels as if it is swimming in the juice of nightlock berries.

“He wasn’t going to last the night,” Haymitch explains unnecessarily.  “He thought he could end it – this rivalry with Alma – and keep you safe once and for all.  We just had to set the trap and wait for him to make his move.”

It makes sense.  I know it makes sense.  But this hadn’t been some snare in the woods meant to catch a rabbit.  This had been my _father_ and—and—!

The only thing stopping me from tearing my own hair out is Peeta’s presence beside me on the bench.  I have to stay calm and collected.  I cannot fall apart.

Haymitch twists the knife as I know he must.  That is his job: motivating me to do what _I_ must.  “Don’t waste this chance.  Don’t let your papa have died for nothing.”

How can he even say that?  How can he when none of this even matters!  “Peeta and I are still guilty of his murder unless, by some miracle, there are witnesses who say otherwise!”

“There _are_ witnesses,” Haymitch admits.

I gape.

“I made sure of it.  You two are in the clear once the council convenes and hears the testimony.”

My mouth unhinges further.

He winces dramatically and, reaching forward, nudges my jaw shut with a scarred knuckle.  “A queen doesn’t gawp, dumpling.”

I shake my head.  All of this is happening too fast for me to absorb.  “So… you are telling me that you have him?  My father’s killer?  He will be punished?”

“If you speak before the council tomorrow,” he vows.

The weight of vengeance slipping from my shoulders nearly sends me toppling off of the bench.  When Peeta’s hand squeezes mine, I realize I’m only barely holding onto my bow and arrow with the limply curled fingers of one hand while the other is warmly enfolded in his grasp.  Before he can prompt me, I hurriedly relay Haymitch’s message.  I have to stop and start several times – Peeta is unaware of both nightlock and its properties, and once that explanation is out of the way he understands that—

“Your father was dying the day of our wedding.”

I nod.

“There was nothing we could have done to prevent it.”

“Yes, nothing.  A man can live a day or two, maybe three, after he eats nightlock.  No one survives later.”

Peeta bites his lip and shoots a glare at my mentor.  “But he could have refused.  Why did he give that poison to him?”

I wish Peeta didn’t have to understand, but he needs to.  “My father gave everything to this country.  This is a king’s work.”

Because I am seated so close beside him, because he and I very nearly share one breath, I feel it when he falters.

“My father gave his life for us – to show everyone we are good.  He gave his life for our safety – to catch his enemy.”

“This is what a king must do?”

“And a queen.”

Peeta shakes his head.  It’s too much.  I relent, allowing him time and peace with which to think.  A movement from the wall of the cottage draws my attention: Káto crossing his arms.  I do not have to explain my father’s reasoning to him.  He is an heir to a kingdom.  He understands.

Drawing in a cleansing breath, I focus on Haymitch, unsurprised to find his shrewd gaze trained upon me.  “Do we return to the fortress with you?” I ask.

“Not tonight.  It’s not safe yet.  Rory and Vick will bring you when it’s time.”

I open my mouth to demand what it is he’s not telling us, but then roll my eyes.  I am paranoid.  He simply wants to keep us safely concealed until the council has called everyone to order.  Alma and his supporters will not be pleased to see us.  They might even be planning another attack—

The thought brings me up short, as if I’d run into a wall.  Haymitch is right: Peeta and I are not safe yet.  Justice is within sight, but Alma will not make the undertaking easy for us.

Haymitch mumbles irritably, “I guess I’ll go ahead and arrange that diversion now.  Gotta get you through the gates without alerting Alma’s men to your arrival—  What?”

In this regard, at least, we are ahead of our enemies.  I slide a conspiratorial smirk in my husband’s direction before answering.  “Actually, Peeta has already prepared one.”

I confess the plan in full.  It is complicated, but after months of carefully weighing my words, my explanation is brief and efficient:

The ship from Norway had departed as Alma expected, but by morning the bodies of Sweyn’s men will litter our shores.

The signal fires will be lit when Káto’s oarsmen are seen on the beaches, armed while dumping the bodies and making no effort to hide their presence.

Peeta and I will then enter the fortress with the crowd but, meanwhile, after lingering on the shores for a time, the men and women of Káto’s company will take both ships and sail for Denmark.

There will be no raid at all, but Alma’s plan to ally with Norway will be in shambles.  Everyone will know it and—

“Everyone will be expecting a response from old Bluetooth for the attempted abduction of his heir,” Haymitch supplies.

“Yes, but the ships will anchor only a day away to stand by if needed.”

My mentor’s smile widens until his grin is as toothy as it is evil.  I can hear how much Haymitch relishes this turn of events when he finally drawls, “You remember me asking you if buttercream here was gonna be of any use to us when the next wave of Northmen washed up on our shores?”

“Yes.”

He snorts.  “You could have just _told_ me the truth.”

“The truth?”

“That he’s blessed with the gods’ own wits.”

I huff out a laugh.  I hadn’t even realized Peeta had been capable of something like this, although I should have.  He’d thought fast and saved me from certain death on my first night in Trelleborg.  He’d found a way to speak to me through etchings.  He’d built my trust for him so skillfully and steadily that I’d come to love him more than my own life.  I should have known.  Peeta _knows_ people and this is what makes him so formidable.

I tell my mentor, “You wouldn’t have believed me.”

“Hm.  True enough.”  But I can see from the flash in his eyes that he won’t be so ready to doubt me in the future.  Somehow – in the midst of all of this – I might finally be gaining something I’ve never before had with this man.  Something more than reluctant confidence in my judgment.  Something that resembles the respect of an equal.


	63. Between Exile and Attack

(Katniss)

 

It’s the middle of the night.  Peeta and I are still filthy, the future is unknown and the past is unchanged.  The weight of a nation rests upon my shoulders and grief makes my heart heavy, but I have something now that I haven’t had in days: hope.

It is the only thing stronger than fear, and we have fear aplenty.

Peeta and I will see this through.  We will be cautious.  We will not give Alma any openings or leniency.  We will enter the fortress carefully and stay out of sight until the council gathers to hear testimony against my father’s killer and then Alma will be no longer be a problem.

Peeta will be safe.

Everything will be fine.

I can taste the elusive flavor of relief upon my tongue.  It reminds me of blood and wild flowers and the scent of budding trees in springtime.

Soon, this will all be over.

“Well,” Haymitch grunts as he stands and stretches, “you can thank me at any time, dumpling.”

If I weren’t so exhausted, I’d roll my eyes at him.  “What for?”

He affects a mockery of wide-eyed shock, pressing his splayed hand over his chest.  “What do you think?”  He nods toward the crew from Denmark.  “Your fighters, of course.”

“You…  What?”  I’m too tired to untangle his words.

He directs his gaze upward toward the realm of the gods.  “How else was I supposed to send you and buttercream people you knew you could trust?”

I gape.  I should have realized this had been Haymitch’s motive in allowing Alma to convince the council to send Káto and his crew across the sea.  Recalling my revelation about the spies and supporters of Alma in our midst, I realize that the only people either of us can trust to stand with us against Alma are Peeta’s brother and friends.

Still… how had Haymitch known Peeta and I would triumph?  Does he truly have that much faith in me and my abilities?  He must.  There is no other explanation that makes sense.

Haymitch tilts his chin down and scans the assembled warriors with a thoughtful scowl, “Although, to be honest, I figured you’d recruit all of ‘em to storm the fortress.”

“I don’t want to get anyone killed, Haymitch.  Not if I can help it.”

“I didn’t say it was a _bad_ surprise.”

I don’t have a reply to that.

“Too bad for them, though.  They look like a bit of bloodshed would cheer ‘em up.”

“I’m sure it would…”  It occurs to me then that we _cannot_ bring Káto and the others inside the fortress with us, not if Peeta and I hope to convince the council of the imminent arrival of Harald’s forces.

“Peeta,” I say, “it will be difficult, um.  You and I will enter the fortress.  Two people will be difficult to hide.  We cannot hide eight.  If people see your brother… um, your plan…?”

My husband is unsurprised by this observation.  “Yes, I’ve considered that.”  When he turns to address his brother about this, I seek out Haymitch, just to be certain he has no final instructions or advice.

Taking in Káto’s irked expression and irritably crossed arms, Haymitch smirks with his signature sarcasm and then cracks open the front door to wave Hazelle and her children back inside.  Posy goes right to the stew pot and Vick begins pulling wooden bowls down from the shelves.  Rory reaches up into the rafters for the tattered bed furs draped over the wooden beams.

With one foot out the door, Haymitch delivers his parting words.  “Look for me and little miss bell-berry once you’re through the gates tomorrow.  Unless we tell you otherwise, head for the washing room off the kitchen.”

I shake my head.  “No.  There’s only one exit to that room.”  And the sole window faces the armory, which will be one of the busiest areas in the fortress once the signal fires have been lit.

“All right, where do you suggest?”

That’s the problem: there aren’t many places suited to concealment inside the fortress walls.  The stables will be packed to bursting.  The granaries are too exposed out in the yard.  The dining hall and bed chambers – all either too public or too enclosed.  “Meeting room,” I croak, immediately hating the suggestion.

“Dumpling, your papa’s being dressed for burial in there.”

His tender tone does more to unravel me than a betrayal would have.  I curse.  I keep my face turned away from Peeta.  If he reaches out to me now, his warm hands will destroy me.  “Fine.  The washing room.”

Hazelle offers, “The children and I will go with you.  Everyone will assume we’re working in there.”

She’s right.  As she’s one of the fortress’ laundresses, no one would question Hazelle sequestering herself and her younger children in that room for a morning.  Imminent attack or no, there is always washing to be done.

When I make no further argument, she nods.  “Now that’s settled.  We’ll prepare you and your lord husband baths, Katniss.  And dinner and beds for everyone.”

“Thank you, Hazelle.”

“You’re our daughter, Katniss.  The daughter of our country.  It’s an honor to assist you.”

She rubs my shoulder before moving away and I find I have one more question for the man in front of me.  “Did I make the right decision?  Um, fleeing the fortress that night?”

My mentor smiles.  “No, but I was prepared for that.”

“Why didn’t you tell me there would be witnesses?”  That would have made all the difference.

“Because then you would’ve starting asking questions and, once you’d figured out what was going to happen, you would’ve stomped over to Alma and accused him in public before a crime had even been committed.  And your papa still would have died from the nightlock.”

My body has turned to stone.  I cannot move.  I cannot resist the truth as it sinks in.

Haymitch sighs.  “Dumpling, you love your papa.  So there was no way I was gonna force you to stand back and watch, _knowing_ that he was gonna let someone kill him.  You couldn’t have done it.  _I_ couldn’t have done that to you.”

I bite the inside of my cheek.  I’m too tired to weep, but I have never felt so irreparable.

Haymitch lifts a hand a presses his palm to the side of my neck.  “You could have stayed behind.  I would have kept you both safe.”

“I know that now.  But… I didn’t.  Then.  I didn’t know it then.”

His smile is sudden and filled with pride.  “So you did what I’ve always taught you to do: you stayed alive.”

I suppose I had.

“Well done, dumpling.”  He gently pats my cheek.  “I’ll see you in the morning.”

I nod.

Haymitch glances over my shoulder and catches Peeta’s eye, giving him a nod in acknowledgement.  In the next instant, my mentor is gone and door thumps closed.  I stare at it, seeing the path outside.  One end leads to Denmark and the other to my father’s fortress… and here we linger: trapped between exile and attack.

“Don’t worry, dear,” Hazelle counsels, returning to my side.  “Your people believe in you.  No one wants to believe you did that horrible thing, and no one will argue with the account of good witnesses.”

Despite Haymitch’s assertions, I cannot comprehend that Alma has made a mistake, that the threat he poses will soon be eliminated.  I have lived with these anxieties too long for me to easily set them aside.  I half expect to wake up from all this to the cold, hard reality of another day running and hiding in the wilderness.  After only two days, it feels as if survival has become my entire life.  What if Alma talks his way out of punishment?  What then?  What can I possibly say to unmask him?  “But he will fight us, and he is more persuasive than I.”

“Precious Katniss,” Hazelle sighs.  “You have a lifetime of good deeds.  What does he have?  A lifetime of oily charm—”

“And an army,” I remind her.  A second thought shakes me to my core: “Alma has the ear of the council.  He convinced them to send my husband’s brother to my father-in-law’s sworn enemy.”  How can Haymitch be so sure that they’ll even _believe_ the testimony of the witnesses?

Hazelle pulls me close, uncaring of my filth.  “Don’t give the man too much credit.  Pretty words don’t make him wise.  And now that you are here, we have a choice in who leads us.”

Unsure of how to answer that, I simply nod and try not to resist the comfort she offers.  I remind myself that Haymitch is confident that we have the advantage.  We just have to make sure Alma doesn’t know it until it’s too late.

As the bathwater is heated, Peeta and I eat.  This is the first hot food we’ve had in what feels like forever and once my belly is full all I want to do is curl up against my husband and sleep.  Instead, I have to force myself to get cleaned up.  At least I’ll have Peeta to help hold me up while I wash—

“Come on, dear,” Hazelle says, interrupting my hazy thoughts and motioning me behind the woven-reed screen which separates the main room from the cottage larder.  Rory pours the last bucket of steaming water into a basin set before the hearth at my feet.  Why would I follow Hazelle over there if our bath is here?  And that’s when I see Posy dragging a second steaming bucket behind the screen.  Two baths.  Oh.

I share a disappointed smile with Peeta.

“Another time,” he murmurs.

I nod.  Yes, another time when we won’t have an audience to deal with.

“Well, let’s go, brainless.  If I’m going to be staying here for however long, you’ll need to bathe.  I can barely keep my supper down what with your stench filling up the place.”

I glare up at Johanna.

Peeta reprimands her, “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t be… you, Johanna.”

“Why?  Your little wifey can’t handle a bit teasing?”

That’s it.  I stand and shove her back a step.  She’s taller than me and heavy with muscle but she’s no match for my fury.  “Stop.  Do not speak that.  Peeta is a good man and he can have a good wife.”

Johanna’s thin lips stretch into a crooked grin.  “Still defending him?”

“You do not respect him.”

“Not true,” she answers.

But if her criticism is not aimed at Peeta then that must mean… she is testing _me?_   “Ask your questions,” I dare her.

Johanna’s eyes narrow as she considers the invitation.  “Fine.  Answer me this.  Tomorrow we may all die – Peeta might die the moment he sets foot in that fortress.  I just want to know why.  This is your fight.  Who are fighting for?”

The moment the words are past her lips, I know that I can’t refuse to respond.  I owe Peeta the truth.  I owe his countrymen the truth.  Johanna is right: this is my fight.  No one is under any obligation to offer their assistance in the pursuit of it.

I tell her, “I fight for my people.  They are first.  They must be first.  Then, my father.  Alma will answer to _everyone_ about his death.”  I hate that what I say next cannot be said first.  “I fight for Peeta if he needs me, but he is strong.  He can fight.”

Peeta shifts beside me, fitting his palm against mine and squeezing my fingers.  I squeeze back.  Perhaps I fight for Peeta more than I had just admitted.  He needs my guidance in this culture which is foreign to him, but he is capable of defending himself, of making himself heard, of being his own man.  But more than anything, he needs to know that I respect him, that I know he can fight even if he is not quite ready to face the consequences of battle again, not with our promises to each other lurking in our shadow.

Johanna nods.  “Hm.”  She reaches out and tweaks a tangled lock of my oily hair.  “You reek.  I’ll wash your hair.  Come on.  Water’s getting cold, princess.”

Despite the way her nose wrinkles as I disrobe behind the screen, Johanna is surprisingly efficient in helping me wash and comb my hair.  Perhaps she has little sisters.  Kolfrosta, perhaps?  Had we been friends, I might have asked.

Hazelle hands me one of my own gowns – “From Haymitch,” Gale’s mother explains – and I have to shake my head at yet another indication of my mentor’s confidence.  I _might_ have accepted Káto’s offer and left the country with Peeta, but Haymitch had gambled that I would take another path, one that would lead me here.  And why had I come here rather than seek out Boggs or Thresh, Mitchell or Mason, Chaff or Thom?  Because Haymitch had sent Gale out to find us and I _do_ trust my mentor.  I trust him with my life and with Peeta’s life.

I sigh.

“I’m still not convinced that you’re not an idiot,” Johanna suddenly mutters in a biting tone, “but don’t you dare waste Peeta.  There’s only one of him.”

Again, I’m rendered speechless.

With a final swipe of the comb, Johanna stomps away, uncaring of my husband’s state of dress on the other side of the screen.  I follow close at her heels and breathe out in relief when I see Peeta, washed and clothed, perching beside the hearth.  I join him.  My hair will dry faster close to the fire and the heat will stave off the night chill.  Peeta himself will shelter me from the darkness that surrounds us.  When he curls an arm around my back and whispers in my ear – “I’m yours and I trust you” – I know that he’d heard Johanna’s parting words.

The night is dark and long.  I can’t turn my thoughts away from the morrow.  I can’t waste a moment of the closeness I share with Peeta.  Once abed, I tuck my head beneath his chin and curve my hand over the back of his shoulder, holding on.  It takes hours – most of the night – before I realize that I’m clutching Peeta in my arms not because I fear Alma but because I am the daughter of a king, a king who had given his life for the sake of his people and their future, a king who has chosen his daughter to take his place.

For the first time in my life I wonder if I am truly capable of such an office.  If I have enough to give.  If I can bear to give Samland my all when I’ve already – and irrevocably – placed my heart in Peeta’s hands.


	64. The Point of No Return

(Peeta)

 

Katniss and I don’t sleep.  How can we, in the wake of such a terrible sacrifice and on the eve of a treacherous unknown?  How can we do anything other than cling to one another out of both dread and hope?

“What do you fear?” I dare to murmur in the darkest part of the night.

Katniss doesn’t stir and, for a moment, I doubt the instinct that tells me she is awake.  But then she breathes into my clean shift, “They will take everything of me and you will have nothing.”

So easily, she has named my own nightmare, painted it, breathed life into it.

I can’t deny the power of that terror.  Instead, I pull her closer until not even death could pry her from my arms.

I am terrified.  Everdeen’s sacrifice is a horror I’d never had to contemplate before.  Katniss had told me once that I would do well as a king, that I give my all without thought or question, but I cannot give up _her._   There is no doubt in my mind that I could and _would_ give my life in exchange for Katniss’ – I have never doubted that – but the thought now fills me with unanticipated fear.  I only have one life to give; suppose I do not give it at the right moment or in the right way?  Suppose my death helps no one?  Suppose Katniss suffers for it rather than benefits?

Life had been so much simpler when my master had been a mortal man rather than the future of an entire nation.

“Can we do this?  Truly?” I murmur into her ear.

She tilts her head back over my arm.  The dim embers in the hearth reflect off of the damp strands of her thick hair.  Her eyes gleam in the darkness.  “Together, yes,” she vows.

I take her hand and bring it to my lips.  There is so much more to be said but the words to match them have not yet been invented.  I lean my cheek against her head and think of a night spent out-of-door beneath the stars, sharing a single fleece.  I think of the heat of her beneath my mantle and her chilled fingertips brushing tears from my lashes.  I think of the weight of her head resting upon my shoulder in the stables, lambs and ewes rustling through the bedding around us.

How far we’ve come.

How much we now stand to lose.

The residents of the cramped cottage rouse at dawn to a convenient, misting rain.  Katniss assists me in lacing up my bracers and leg guards.  My clean shift is too short in the sleeves and a little tight across the shoulders, but it will serve.  The tunic Haymitch had brought for me is the one I’d worn on the journey from Denmark.  It is simple in design.  I do not know if it will help make me invisible to the people of the village – my size and limp both work against me – but it can’t hurt to wear it.

Hazelle embraces my wife once more before gathering the children and going outside to tend to their livestock.  Katniss paces the confines of the small home.  She is dressed in her plainest gown.  I remember kissing her beneath the boughs of twin trees while she’d worn this garment.  I remember telling her that I am hers and that with each passing day I have more to offer her.

Please, let me offer her more and more and more.  Endlessly.

Káto exhales harshly and I give him my attention.

“I do not trust this Haymitch.  You will be caught entering that fortress.  You will be seen.”

He may be right.  “And if we are, who will come to our aid if escape is our only option?”

There is really only one answer he can give me.  With a put-upon sigh, he does: “We – the six of us – will.”  My brother is clearly unhappy about being left behind, but it makes sense.  If Katniss and I are caught, these six friends will help us make the crossing to the ships that will take us to Denmark.  Escape from the fortress itself will be the concern of Katniss and myself.  I’m certain we’ll find a way to manage it, but I fervently hope that Katniss and I will not have a reason to use the fortress’ secret entrance ever again.

A muffled shout ekes in through the wattle and daub walls.  Then another.  A clatter – a dropped basket.  The knocking of wooden poles and the disgruntled footsteps of animals being shoved away from their feeding troughs.

When Hazelle bursts through the door and holds out two lengths of fabric to Katniss and me, I know it’s time.  The signal fire has been lit.  The next part of our plan to infiltrate the fortress and weaken Alma’s support base has been implemented.

As her children fetch the livestock and Hazelle hefts the first of three laundry baskets, I hang back, looking to my brother.  Káto meets my gaze.

“I will see you soon,” I vow.

“One way or the other,” he returns.

It’s too late to try and convince him not to take any unnecessary risks.  He will do whatever he believes he must.  For my part, I follow Katniss.

The exodus of villagers and livestock into the fortress begins.  It is not as frantic as the first two times we’d been given warning of an approaching ship and the rainfall is not heavy enough to truly warrant headwear, but many people are still sleepy and they do not  pay any mind to the lengths of fabric Katniss and I wear as hoods.  I remind myself to breathe slowly and not glance about.  I have to trust that my wife will keep pace with me in the jostling crowd.  Yet, with each step, I wait for a shout of discovery.

Goats bleat.  Chickens squawk.  Geese honk.  Cows low.  Feet shuffle and children whine.  Impatient reprimands come from parents and older siblings alike.

But there are no cries of alarm.

Our gamble appears to be paying off.

No one spares us a second glance.  Or even a first.

We can do this.

My hand twitches in Katniss’ direction, but I don’t let go of the laundry basket.  I wish we were still wrapped around each other on the floor of Hazelle’s cottage.  We’d gotten barely any sleep what with how tightly we’d been grasping each other, but the distance between us now threatens to drive me mad.

A shift in the crowd – someone bumps into my shoulder and I stumble.  Katniss’ elbow clumsily nudges its way beneath mine, tethering me.  I don’t look in her direction and she doesn’t speak.  We inch our way toward the side of the road and, passing through the gates, locate our guide.  Prim has stationed herself near the threshold, directing people to settle their animals in the stables and their belongings along the walls of the keep.  She gestures the two of us deeper into the yard with a small but welcoming smile.  The subtle tension fades from her expression.  Her eyes brighten; she’d been worried about us.

Katniss and I carry our baskets toward the kitchen doorway with Hazelle shadowing our steps.  My heart is pounding.  I feel dizzy.  I hadn’t genuinely expected to make it this far.  

Crossing the yard, I feel completely exposed despite the hood covering my face and the basket disguising my purpose.  My leg roars in agony with every step I take.  I’m too tense.  I’m making my unsmooth gait even worse.  Someone will notice, will remember my signature limp, will raise the alarm.

Katniss jogs up the steps to the kitchen’s backdoor, pokes her head inside, glances left and right, then tosses her basket down and returns to my side.  She wraps an arm around me and steadies me as I make the short climb.

I let out my breath when I step into the empty kitchen.

We are still safe, but I know that once I set my basket down, my hands will start shaking.

Hazelle prods us into the washing room and moves toward the hearth to stoke the fire.  The wooden door thumps closed behind us and both Katniss and I toss our laundry baskets to the floor.  I pull her into my arms and she fists her hands in my tunic to yank me close.  We’re still wearing out hood scarves.  I can’t be bothered to let go of her long enough to remove them.

“We can do this,” Katniss breathes into my shoulder.

I nod.  Yes, we can do this, but for now all we can do is wait.

Our guide fetches water and begins sorting through the garments we’d brought with us.  Katniss and I both offer to help, but Hazelle waves us off.  She gives Katniss a gentle admonishment and a teasing smile which makes my wife flush.

At my prompting, she explains, “When I wash clothing, I – um – am not gentle.”  She mimes furious scrubbing and incidental tearing of fabric.

I laugh softly, directing the sound into her hood to muffle it.  She helps me move a bench over to the corner behind the door.  It will not aid us in slipping out of the room unseen if someone should enter it, but it will give us more warning.

I hold Katniss’ hands in both of mine and press my shoulder against hers as we brace each other upright on our bench.  The benches here hold many memories for me already: I remember sitting down across from my wife’s mentor the first night we’d arrived.  I remember how exquisite Katniss had looked in her fine gown.  I remember her sister’s teasing voice – Prim had seen our affection for each other and used the knowledge to make her older sister blush.  I remember Haymitch’s haggard face softening in relief when he’d finally embraced Katniss.  I remember Rory’s telling flush and wide grin as he’d helped Prim lead us through the wedding dance in the king’s meeting room.  I remember the way Katniss had arched beneath the sheepskin, as I’d washed the battle gore from her hair.  I remember the look in Everdeen’s eyes when I’d sat at his bedside and spoken my oath to Katniss in Samish.

I hold onto these moments, these people.  They are real and their loyalty is true.  I have to believe that because—

_Thud!_

Katniss startles.  My chin jerks up.

_Thud!_

Her fingers are like talons around mine.  I wait for her to draw blood.  I want her to.  Otherwise I fear I’ll burst from the pressure.

_Thud!_

—because the gate is locked and now there is no going back.

I take a deep breath and focus on what lies ahead.  Katniss had told me how it would happen: once the threat has been assessed and the need for urgency dismissed, the gates would be reopened and the council convened in the hall.  All would be welcome to attend as testimony is given and judgment passed… and then punishment meted out.

I will be by her side through all of it.  There is no force in the world that can force me to fail that resolution.

Questions bubble up within me one at a time, but I utter none of them: When will the call-to-arms be dismissed and the soldiers stand down?  How long before the council gathers and Haymitch fetches us?  A day spent in silence holding Katniss is no hardship under normal circumstances, but as we blithely sit within a fortress overrun with potential enemies, I cannot afford to take much comfort in the embrace.

When the door opens, both of us tense.  Katniss reaches for her knife and I grope for mine.

Posy skips obliviously inside followed by a less enthusiastic Vick.  And then Prim spins across the threshold, scanning the room for us and rushing to our side.  Rory lingers behind to shut the door for her.

Prim exclaims softly into her sister’s shoulder, hugging her close, and Katniss very nearly pulls her into her lap despite the fact that the two of them are nearly the same height.  After a moment, Prim turns her face toward me, smiles, and reaches for my hand.

“We are well,” I tell her quietly and watch as tears spring to her eyes.  She clutches my hand hard briefly, before sliding off of Katniss.  My wife makes room for her on the bench, which results in Katniss sitting upon _my_ lap, resting most her weight upon my right leg but, in truth, I barely pay my still-aching left any mind at all.  No, this new seating arrangement is not an unpleasant development in the slightest.

I wrap my arms around Katniss’ waist and let their hushed and hurried words pass over me like birdsong.  It’s surprisingly easy to wait while Prim speaks.  Katniss’ shoulder brushes against my chest, so I can feel that she’s not tense.  That is how I know that everything is fine and she’ll translate for me later.

When the door opens a second time, my hand is faster as I reach for my knife.  Katniss perches on my knee, ready to stand.

Chaff smiles into the room.  He crosses the stone floor and, when he holds his hand out to us, I abandon my grip on the knife and accept his clasp.  Katniss relaxes again.  He doesn’t say much, but my wife nods.  We watch him return to the door and stand in front of it.  Guarding the entrance to the room.

“Peeta,” Prim whispers, bringing my attention back to her wide eyes.  “Take care.”

I nod.

She embraces her sister once more while I hold Katniss steady with an arm around her waist.  Katniss slides down onto the bench as Prim hurries to the door, grasping Rory’s hand briefly and giving him a tender smile.  Chaff moves to let her pass and she sweeps from the room, her skirt flaring briefly behind her—

—she stumbles backward hurriedly.  Rory hurries to her side, his hand upon the ax in his belt.  Chaff shifts to brace the door shut but it’s too late.

A man with iron grey hair barges over the threshold.  Katniss stiffens.  The knife is strangely light in my shock-numbed hand.

Three more men pour over the threshold to join the first.  I recognize only one of them.  He is the man Katniss had thrown out of her father’s dining hall by his lank and dirty hair: Cray.

I surge to my feet beside Katniss as a cruel smile curves Cray’s lips.  His eyes glint with malice, but he does not charge forward.  He makes no move to attack at all.  Instead, he defers to the man with the grey hair and stony expression.  I’ve never seen him before, but I know who he is, who he must be.

Alma.


	65. The Path Ahead

(Katniss)

 

I bite back the curses that crowd my tongue.  I will not give Alma the satisfaction of seeing me so unsettled.  Standing between him and Peeta, I adopt a bored expression.  I have nothing to lose by antagonizing him as there is nothing I could do or say that would win me a friendly overture.

“I expected you sooner,” I inform him.

His bloodless lips twist upward in a mockery of a smile.  “Winning the rule of a kingdom is busy work.”

“You aren’t very efficient at it.”

“All I need a little practice, I’m sure.”

I lift my chin.  “Yes, while you’ve been playing with your toys, others have done the real work.”

A muscle along his sagging jaw twitches.  “In the name of the council, I confine you to this room to await their judgment.”

“Ah, that would be an admirable effort, Alma,” a familiar drawl interjects, “but the council hasn’t charged you with acting on their behalf in this matter.”  My mentor pokes his head into the room and scowls at me.  I endeavor to appear as equally unfriendly to Haymitch as he props himself up against the open door.  Behind him, I can see a shoulder that looks like it belongs to Boggs.  My mentor has brought his own force to this little meeting.  Does that mean my old friends still put their faith in me?  I cannot afford to relax my guard, regardless.

“See, that’s _my_ job,” Haymitch continues, scratching at his own scruffy beard.  “And the council will call for them when they’re good and ready.”

“Yes.  And I suppose you’d like me to leave them in your care since you are so very impartial.”

Haymitch wheezes out a laugh.  “Oh, no.  By all means, leave your goons scattered around like crumbs for the chickens to pick at.”

Alma does not like this analogy.  I can see it in the subtle twitch of his fingers.  Peeta places a comforting hand on my left arm, leaving my right free to reach for my weapon.

“In fact, why don’t you do that, friend?” Haymitch antagonizes him.  “The boys from the watchtowers have just delivered some interesting news to the council concerning your little pets from Norway.”

Alma doesn’t lower himself to asking Haymitch for the information.  He gestures for two of his men to remain behind and strides from the room with his son dogging his steps.  Although he takes in the room with a sweeping glance, Haymitch acknowledges no one save me.  His eye twitches in a quick wink, and then he herds everyone out of the room – including Alma’s men – and slams the door shut, sealing us in our prison.

I briefly consider dragging a bench over to the single window to investigate the feasibility of a potential escape, but where would Peeta and I go?  We would be seen dropping into the bailey and crossing the yard.  There’s no point in running.

“Was that good or bad?” Peeta whispers into my ear.

When I look over my shoulder at him, I realize that his comforting hand had instead been wrapped around my arm, and he is bracing himself as if preparing to yank me out of his way.  His right hand is on the knife in his belt and his jaw is set.  Lame leg or not, he’d been fully prepared to fight our sudden visitors in an effort to protect me.

A brief swelling of indignation fills me to the brim, but I let it overflow and evaporate.  How can I fault him for mirroring me?  Had I not stepped in front of him with the very same intention?  He hadn’t denied me that, so I won’t deny him this.

“Alma,” I begin, formally introducing our adversary, and then I falter.  Exactly what _had_ just happened here?  I let out a breath and sink back down to the bench.  “The council trusts Haymitch about us.  They do not trust Alma.  And, I think, they know about Sweyn’s men.  They know Alma’s plan will not be good.  Um.  No friendship with Norway.”

“And that makes your mentor happy,” Peeta summarizes, copying Haymitch’s final parting gesture and winking at me.  “Once the ships sail west, the council will want to speak to you.”

“To us,” I correct.

Peeta shakes his head.  “No, mostly to you.  You are an emissary of sorts.”

“A what?”

He licks his lips thoughtfully as he searches for words.  “Haymitch told everyone that you were a guest in Denmark for those seasons, yes?”

I nod.

“Then, as a former guest and a new friend to Harald, you and you alone are in a position to dissuade him from attacking Samland and seeking revenge for what Alma tried to do to Káto.  That’s what the council will be thinking.”

Because they do not know that the ships’ journey west is merely a ploy.  Samland is safe enough from Harald’s wrath for now… until Káto departs.  I tilt my head to the side and reach for Peeta’s arm, commanding his full attention.  “And later?  When your brother returns home?  What will happen?  Will he bring Harald’s armies down upon us?”

Peeta answers slowly.  “If Alma is king, yes, I believe he will.  He must.  Alma has lost his gamble and now Harald has reason to hate him.”

“If Harald learns of it.”  Wait.  What am I saying?  That I would somehow prevent Káto from reporting Alma’s treachery to Harald?  Impossible.  But how can I stand by and watch as my people are destroyed?  For their sake, there must be only one outcome: “We must rule Samland.  You and I.  We must do this.”

Peeta bows his head.  “I know.”

Fury explodes within me.  I fist my hands in my lap, bunching the fabric of my gown in my aching fingers.  “Again, you have no choice.  I’m sorry.”

Peeta’s fingertips brush gently over my cheek, coaxing me into softening, leaning, trusting, longing…  “I did have a choice, Katniss.  It’s you.  I _chose_ you.”

I blink.  My breath catches and tangles in my throat.  The truth of his words overwhelm me.  Peeta _had_ chosen me: he’d asked Káto to buy me; later that night, he’d pressed me – bloody and gore splattered – to his clean tunic to save me from punishment; he’d shared his fleece, his strength, his kindness, _himself_ with me; he’d chosen me to be his friend and companion… his wife.  He’d chosen me when Gale had suddenly appeared.  He’d chosen me when he’d learned my true identity.  He’d chosen me when he’d thrown that spear from the top of the wall, and again when he’d bungled onto the battlefield, and then when he’d saved Chaff’s life, and as he’d cleaned my boots and offered me the cup and later spoken his vows and we’d drunk to each.  He’d chosen me when his own brother had come to take him home.

“You did,” I agree, awed.

“No, Katniss,” he argues softly, framing my face in his warm hands.  “I _do.”_

I shudder.  Gods save me, help me, guide me.  I cannot refuse him or turn him away even though—“Our path ahead will not be easy.”

He accepts my warning with a smile.  “I know.  But it will be ours.  And I will wake beside you every morning.”

He doesn’t have to tell me that’s all he wants.  All he needs.  My heart mirrors his.  I tuck myself into his embrace and we hold each other until the door opens once more.  Chaff greets us solemnly.  Haymitch gives us a cocky smile.

“C’mon, dumpling.  It’s time.”


	66. The Council

(Katniss)

 

I do not know what to say.  I meet the eyes of each council member where they sit atop the dais of the dining hall.  I recognize some faces easily.  Others have faded in my memory since the last gathering of the tribes.  I’d faced them in my twelfth summer when my father had named me as his successor, and again the previous spring when it had become clear that my father would not be recovering from his illness swiftly.

“What are your plans for your father’s kingdom?” they’d asked me.

“To defend it from all enemies,” I had fearlessly answered, furious with each of them for pulling me away from my duties.

Now I have so much more to defend.

I fist my hands instead of reaching out for Peeta, who stands beside me as my equal, my husband, my first and last reason for everything.  I try to swallow, but I can’t.  My throat is locked in place.  I’m not ready for this.  I don’t know what to say, what I _should_ say, what I _have to_ say.  Why hadn’t Haymitch counseled me on this when he’d come to the washing room to fetch us?  Does he _want_ me to fail?

No.  No, I can’t believe that.  It must be that the case against Alma is strong enough that I needn’t be eloquent or persuasive.  Just as well.  I’m wretched at the first, and would require a bow and arrow for the second to be even a remote possibility.

The council’s chosen spokeswoman – Paylor – begins, “Katniss, daughter of Everdeen.  We ask that you answer our inquiries directly.”

“I will,” I vow, regarding each tribal leader in turn as I await the first question.  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Gale seated with several other men along the wall.  Are they the witnesses that have already spoken?

“Tell us your account of the night King Everdeen was killed,” Paylor invites and I comply.  I do not mention the feeling of foreboding or Káto’s campaign to take Peeta back to Denmark.  I speak only of my hostess duties at Peeta’s side.  When I must recount our retreat to the stables, I do not fight my flush or the sick roll of my stomach.  Our private moment has been forever tainted, not just because of what had soon transpired but because I must share it with everyone, but I will not be ashamed.  Peeta is my husband.  I am allowed to want him.

That doesn’t mean I don’t stutter, feel dizzy from the heat rushing to my cheeks, or have to close my eyes briefly to search for my balance.  I do all three.  Simultaneously and more than once.  Eventually, my only escape is into the moment itself: my father’s fall.

The shrieking whistle of a loosened arrow.

The solid strike against the wooden chair.

My father’s face only a hand’s width away from the buried arrowhead.

I speak of the footsteps on the stable roof.  My rush to get to my father’s side.  The spear I’d been too late to stop.  The shadowy figure blending into the night.

At which point, I pause.

“If you did not do these things, why did you flee?” Plutarch asks.

As if he does not know!  Even if my people had doubted that I could murder my own father, the weapons used had been incriminating enough!  And a king’s death demands swift retribution.  I feel ill at the thought of my father’s body lying upon a table in the meeting room for days, awaiting vengeance, but I’d had no other options!

I am pulled in too many directions: my father, my people, Peeta…  I feel my patience begin to thin, simmer with a slow-burning rage, and evaporate dram by dram.  I resent that I must explain our own laws to _them_ of all people.  “Because, at that distance, the arrow looked to be one of mine and the spear one like those wielded by the Northmen!  Many people have seen my husband’s skill with a spear.”

My voice drops in timbre to a growl.  “I swore an oath when I was in Denmark that no harm would come to Peeta here, and that night I feared for his safety.  I feared there would be no witnesses to the attack, that Peeta and I were alone.”

The silence is absolute.

Seeder sits forward and asks in a stern, maternal tone, “Did it not occur to you that your people needed you?”

“They were in need, yes,” I reply shortly.  Shouldn’t these things be self-evident to all?  “But what could I give them that they would accept?  I could see that I had been manipulated, that I would be accused of treason.  What would they accept from me except my death?  And who would that benefit?  Firstly, I had to make sure that Peeta was safe.  That was the only thing I could think of to appease Harald.”

“Appease Harald?” Brutus mutters.  I hope, for the sake of his tribe, that he is not so dense as to be confused by my reasoning.

I snap, “Do you think the king of Denmark would leave our country be if his son were harmed?”  I almost mention Káto but, just as the words assemble themselves, I remember that I am not supposed to be aware of Alma’s plot.  Additionally, Peeta and I had been confined all morning so we would not have heard the news about the ship’s return, the deaths of the Norwegians, or Káto’s oarsmen setting a westward course.  They believe I know none of this.

I say instead, “Peeta was meant to look as guilty as I was.  Would you have let him return to Denmark if you’d believed him to be the one who’d thrown that spear and—!”  I force myself to stop.  Breathe.  Calm my temper.  I remind everyone in a tightly controlled tone, “Harald can crush us with his fleet and army.  It is my duty not to give him a reason to do so.”

I am now empty of words and subtle lies.  My skill at misdirection has extended to its fullest.  Anything else I might say will only reveal that the motivations I have claimed are mere shadows of the truth.  I cannot afford to be seen as a woman-in-love.  Love begets madness even among the gods and I am a mere mortal.

As the council confers in murmurs and the whispers of the audience echo off of the walls of the hall, I stop myself from seeking out Haymitch or Prim.  They cannot help us now.  They should not.

Although their conference lasts only a few minutes, it seems longer than the entire morning had been and those hours had _dragged_ past.

The tribal leaders resume their seats and Paylor speaks again.  “Thank you, Katniss, daughter of Everdeen.  You and your husband may sit.”  I follow her gesture and find a friendly gaze at the end of it: Gale’s.  He moves down, making room for us on the bench.  I don’t dare put Peeta between us and I can see Gale’s lashes twitch in response.  Is he remembering my vow to come between Peeta and any harm?

“We call Cray, son of Alma, to step forth,” Paylor announces and I frown as the man is shoved forward from the edge of the crowd.  Just this morning, he’d leered at me, looking every bit the spoiled son of a triumphant man.  Has so much changed in the meantime?  Is this what Peeta’s plan has done?

I spare a glance at Cray’s father who looks on stoically at the front of the assembled audience.  His right hand twitches, but he makes no move to either grasp his knife or interject on his son’s behalf.

“Cray, we have heard from witnesses concerning your involvement in the death of King Everdeen.  You were seen taking the arrow which Gale, son of Hawthorne, made and placed in the archery shed.  And it is this arrow—”

I fight a shudder as she lifts it from the table and shows it to all.

“—you were seen firing at King Everdeen from the roof of the fortress stables.  You are also skilled in spear-throwing thanks to the tutelage of the Northmen from Norway, which were guests of your father and with whom you were seen practicing, and you were seen throwing this spear—”

I close my eyes rather than look upon the bloodied weapon which Paylor reaches for with the intent of displaying it to all.  If I let myself see the bloodstains thereon, I will lose my tenuous hold upon my control.

“This spear, which did kill King Everdeen.  The witnesses have spoken.  Do you admit your guilt?”

“I am innocent,” he croaks.

“Then let witnesses come forward.  Did anyone observe Cray, at the moment of King Everdeen’s death, otherwise engaged?”

I expect someone to step forward.  Cray has friends – I _know_ this – but Alma scans the crowd with cold eyes.  No one speaks up.

Paylor has no choice but to conclude, “Cray, your guilt is indisputable.  Name your co-conspirators so that the punishment may be shared among you.”

The hall is perfectly silent.  I wait for him to name his father.  I wait for both of them to submit to justice.

“There is no one else,” Cray croaks out.  “I acted alone.”

“Alma,” Plutarch calls, “do you have any final words to say on your son’s behalf?  Will you plead for his life?”

My father’s enemy steps forward, “I offer no excuses.  I am deeply saddened and shamed by what my son has done.  As a father, my first instinct is to protect him but to do so would be an even greater crime against our king’s memory.  No, Cray’s actions are unforgivable.  He must be punished according to our laws.”

What is this?  What is Alma doing?  What—?

“Very well.  Punishment will be carried out immediately.”  Addressing Cray, Paylor speaks, “You will receive thirteen lashes for the act of murder.  As many of you are aware, each man and woman of the victim’s family has the right to step forward and demand an additional lash.  But, for the death of our king, this right will be extended to _all_ citizens.”

My breath catches in my throat.  Cray sways on his feet, his face nearly white.  The guards on either side of him are forced to grab his arms and hold him steady.  I brace myself for Alma’s objection.  Surely, the man knows what this means.  Surely, he’ll come to his son’s aid now!

But the silence continues.

“Take him outside,” Brutus orders, his tone heavy with disappointment and duty, “and secure him to the post.”

What?  No.  This cannot be.  How can anyone here believe that Cray would act without his father’s encouragement?  Alma is the one who carries the most guilt!  He cannot be permitted to escape justice!

As Cray is marched outdoors and the crowd slowly follows, I grab Peeta’s bracer-clad arm and fight against the tide as I _hunt_ Haymitch.  When I find him, my mentor takes one look at my face before gesturing for us to hurry down the hall.  He stomps into an empty meeting room.

The instant the door closes behind us, my fury is loosened.  “What is the meaning of this?” I hiss.  “You led me to believe that you’d caught Alma!  That my father’s death hadn’t been a waste!”

Haymitch rubs his hands over his face before speaking softly and with palpable regret, “We do have the man who killed your father, but no, we haven’t got Alma.  Only Cray.”

 _No._   I can’t believe it ends like this.  Not after everything.  This is a failure!

Haymitch and Peeta watch me in silence as I open and close my fists.  I pace over to the wall, stop, turn… but there is nowhere to go.

I don’t understand.  There are so many things I don’t understand!

I stare at Haymitch.  Why isn’t he as furious as I am?  He has every right to be.  Unless it’s because—  “Curse you, Haymitch!  You _knew_ it was Cray and not Alma that those men saw!  You knew Cray would take the blame and not his swine of a father!  Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”  Was this what I’d sensed him holding back the night before?  _Why_ hadn’t I pushed him for the truth when I’d had the chance?

He huffs out a breath that is probably stale and reeking of fermentation.  “I didn’t tell you because you needed to be calm and in control when you faced the council, dumpling.  And we all know how _gracefully_ you react when faced with an enemy strutting through your territory.”

The tension in my shoulders snaps at the observation.  I remember how I’d cast aside Haymitch’s counsel and tossed Cray out of my father’s hall by his filthy hair.  Haymitch is right.  I cannot manage my own temper, so he must manage it for me.

I can’t argue back when he muses, “Don’t tell me you could have stood there and said you piece without blatantly insulting the intelligence of every member.”

Again, he’s right.  If I’d known it was Cray alone who’d been named as my father’s assassin, I would have destroyed whatever tentative regard the council holds for me with insults and biased speculation.

Or I might have endeavored to implicate Alma directly.  I might have attempted to lie beyond my ability to convince and if the council had suspected me of speaking untruths…  Well.  I certainly don’t need to be shaking my people’s confidence in me any further.

“Besides,” my mentor continues, “I figured there was a good chance Cray would drag his daddy down with him.”

But he hadn’t.  “Why didn’t Alma beg for leniency, for his son to be exiled rather than…?”

“Would you consider a man like that for your next king?”

Haymitch is correct.  No one will respect Alma if he even suggests that the king’s murderer be permitted to go free.  “Will he bargain for a lighter punishment, then?”  The exchange of silver has stopped whippings from turning into executions before.  Or so I’d heard.

Haymitch shrugs.  “Doubtful.  Alma’s gotta cut the boy loose completely if he wants to come through this smelling like anything other than swine shit.”

Which could mean only one thing: “He’s not going to give up the chance to take the throne.”

I don’t need a nod of his scraggly head to confirm this.  “It’ll come down to trust.  You and buttercream and your friendship with Harald against Alma’s sacrifice and whatever backup plan he has to befriend the king of Norway.”  He looks at Peeta.

So do I.

Oh gods.  If I lose – if I cannot persuade the council to choose me and a friendship with Denmark – then I _know_ what Alma’s next gift to Sweyn is going to be.  Or, rather _who_ that gift will be: Peeta.

Only, what Alma doesn’t know is that Peeta is the bastard child of a slave woman and Harald cannot publically acknowledge him as his son.  If Alma’s army forces Peeta to Norway, he’ll be useless as a hostage.  And useless hostages are not kept alive for very long.

My breath catches in my throat.  This is all my fault.  All of my lies have led us to this.  I have to do something—  “I have to stop him.”

Haymitch clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably.  “Be realistic, dumpling.  We both know you don’t stand a chance against Alma in an open forum.  You’ve got about as much charm as a dead slug.”

“I know.”  I know I’m not good at saying things.  He doesn’t have to remind me.

“It’ll be your allies that will tip the scales.  Alma’s got an army… but you’ve got a friendly rapport with Bluetooth.”

Or so everyone believes.  Is it enough?  Can I bluff our way through this?  But then—  “Even if I become queen, how can I order Alma’s execution without losing favor?”  Cray is even now paying the blood debt owed for my father’s murder.  I cannot accuse Alma of the same crime without evidence.  How long will it take me to gather witnesses to his other crimes?  Or will I have to wait for him to make another mistake?  And who will be killed in the meantime?  Who else will I lose to that whoreson’s lust for power?

Even if I do receive the council’s blessing – even if I wear my mother’s stole and Peeta dons my father’s mantle – Alma will never stop.  He will continue his campaign against us until either we are dead or he is.

“Katniss,” Haymitch says.  I startle when his hands grasp my upper arms.  When had he crossed the room to me?  “You can do this.  You’ve got courage in abundance.  Your people respect you for that.  You’re a fighter.”

Yes, I am, but...

“You know, you _not_ being queen has certain advantages…”

I blink.  Haymitch lowers his chin, his gaze not leaving mine.  In this moment, I read his thoughts clearly.

Yes, I see.  As queen, I could never abuse my power to eliminate someone like Alma.  I could never afford to turn him into a martyr and myself a villain.  But I am _not_ queen.  And Alma is not king.  We are but two citizens of Samland.  Two lowly, petty, brawling citizens.  At least until the council hears us and makes a decision.

Yes, I understand what I must do.

“Katniss?”

I clench my jaw and suppress a shiver at Peeta’s inquisitive tone.  I look into his wide blue eyes and despair.  How do I tell him that the only way through this trial is a course which requires Alma’s death?  How do I tell my husband that it must be me – and only me – who kills him?


	67. For the Death of a King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Torture and gore
> 
> This chapter will not be easy to read. Also, it's from Peeta's POV, so rather than getting a context for why this is "normal" you'll get a lot of confusion and anger.
> 
> Just about everything in "Daughter of Samland, Son of Denmark" has been leading up to Peeta's reaction to the events in this chapter. So far, the prospect of leading a country and "doing your duty" has been tolerable. Peeta needs to realize that sometimes doing one's duty means doing terrible things.
> 
> In the spirit of "Mockingjay", I'm not letting this story go without testing Peeta and Katniss one last time.

(Peeta)

 

Something has happened.  There’s been a shift between Katniss and Haymitch.  I can _feel_ it.  They’ve reached some sort of agreement and I do not understand what it is, but I’ve never seen Katniss look so terrified, so determined, so fey.

Fey.  Gods, what fate have you set upon my wife?

“Katniss,” I beseech.

She turns her gaze toward me and the look in her eyes is enough to make me howl with frustration.  Somehow, I hold it in.

“Speak to me.  Please.  What has happened?”

Katniss shakes her head slowly.  Her lips part.  She draws a breath.

A knock upon the door forestalls whatever she would have said.  Gale and Chaff stand in the corridor, declining to enter the room.  They are our escorts.  I’m unsure where they intend to take us.  I’m unsure about a lot of things, actually, except that Cray had been frightened enough to nearly soil himself in front of the council.

As we are led out into the fortress yard, I begin to understand why.

In the very spot where her father had been killed there now stands a pole, buried deep in the hard-packed earth.  To that pole, Cray has been tied.  His back is bare and his shoulders shake with either silent sobs or sheer terror.  Or both.

One of the council members, a brutish man, holds a length of braided leather – a whip – the loose ends of which look particularly sharp and wicked.

My mind blanks as I take in the scene.  This is not what I’d expected.  I hadn’t expected a fine to be paid or banishment decreed – not for the death of the king – but _this?_

“Thirteen,” Katniss finally whispers, nodding toward the coiled whip.  “Thirteen hits.  One for every moon in a year.  The moon is light in darkness.  It shows us truth.”  I listen as she explains distractedly.  I’ve never heard this dream-like quality in her voice before.  It unsettles me.

“Thirteen is necessary.  But the dead man’s family – they can make more hits.  One man or woman or child of twelve summers, one hit.  They step forward.  Speak their name.  One more.”  Her jaw clenches.  “My father is father of all.  All are family now.”

I scan the crowd.  There must be at least five hundred people packed into the front yard of the bailey and more out on the village road and beyond.  “And the rule holds?  One lash from everyone who wishes that Cray’s punishment be extended?”

Katniss reaches for my arm.  “Cray killed our king.  Now we will kill him.”

I shudder.  I’ve seen the occasional executions before, but they are never drawn-out like the horrendous torments described in tales and songs.  In practice, a quick ax stroke is aimed at the neck of a man, and it’s all over.  This, though… this will take all day.

Part of me is satisfied by the promise of his pain.  He should suffer the same terror that his participating in Alma’s scheme had forced upon Katniss and myself as we’d hidden in the forest.  But I cannot stop myself from thinking— “There is no chance he’ll survive this, is there?”

Katniss shakes her head.  I can see fierce disgust in her features, but is it aimed at her father’s killer or the practice she’d just described?  “Alma can pay silver.  Twenty coins for one hit.  But he won’t.  He gives his son today.”

“What kind of man abandons his son to this?”  I feel ill.

“Alma wants people to believe he was my father’s friend.”

“That’s a lie!” I hiss.

“But people will respect him more.”

“And he will let his son suffer for this?”

Katniss nods.

I almost ask if there is anything we can do for Cray.  He deserves punishment, yes – death, even – but for his own father to turn away from him – to betray him to this agony—!

Perhaps my wife reads my thoughts.  She says, “Cray can ask to die.”  She nods toward the councilwoman who had led the gathering earlier.  There is an ax in her hands.  She lifts it now to gain the attention of the crowd and says a few more words.  I’m glad I cannot understand them.  I don’t particularly want to.  What is about to happen cannot – and should not – be made more palatable or rest more easily upon the conscience of all.

The whip uncoils with a leathery sigh.  Cray visibly braces himself for the oncoming blow.

_Crack!_

He does not cry out, but I can only imagine that his silence is due to shock, the pain so sudden and surprising that Cray has not fully comprehended it.  Across his back, four long welts begin to rise upon his skin.

I stare.  I do nothing other than stare.

_Crack!_

The tender skin, made doubly so by the first strike, blossoms with an additional four flushed marks.  Cray utters a choked shout as his mind begins to understand his body’s predicament.  Now he knows what he feels is pain.

Thirteen lashes.  I’m too mesmerized by the horror to count them.  Instead, I mark their passing by the sounds Cray cannot hold back.  A barking cry, like that of a seal.  A shouted curse.  A guttural holler.  A thin scream.  A sobbing whimper.

Thirteen… and it does not end there.

The councilwoman invites the family of the victim to ask for more.  For a moment, there is utter silence except for Cray’s weeping.  His back is red and raw, resembling the burns one gains from tending the meal-fire day after day.  Bruises are already beginning to form as blood rises to the surface of his too-thin and nearly-steaming skin.  I clench my jaw.  This is not an execution.  This is not honorable.  A man should be given the choice of dying well, of meeting Death with a smile upon his face, no matter his transgressions.  How is there justice in this?

When Katniss steps forward, I reach for her arm.  Am I attempting to hold her back or hold myself steady?  I do not know.

“Peeta, I must,” she murmurs.

Our gazes meet.

“He was my father.”

I can think of nothing to say.  The fabric of her gown slips through my fingers.  She steps forward, separating herself from the crowd.  “Katniss, daughter of Everdeen,” she declares in a strong, clear voice which carries.  I don’t understand the words she utters next, but I understand their purpose.

The whip whistles through the air—

Lands—

A high-pitched wail—

The first trickle of blood emerges from split skin.

The scent of stale ale reaches my nose.  A moment later, Haymitch mutters in my ear, “Peeta.  Was Everdeen your friend or father?”

I know those Samish words – each and every one of them – but, for some reason, I don’t understand the question.

A small, warm hand envelopes mine from the opposite side and I startle.  Prim stands beside me in the place where Katniss had been only moments before, her face pale and eyes large.  She has not yet stepped forward with her sister although she is of age to join her.  When I frown in confusion, she murmurs an explanation that I do not catch before paring it down to a single sentence that I do: “You are her husband.”

Rory’s hand lands on my shoulder.  Their gazes push me: I should be out there, standing beside Katniss.

I take a hesitant step, testing Rory’s grip on my shoulder and my new sister’s clasp upon my hand.  Rory gives me a gentle nudge and Prim’s fingers fall away.  They look at me expectantly.

Haymitch gives me an additional incentive, “Katniss needs you, buttercream.”  With one last pat on my back, he sends me toward the edge of the crowd.

I try not to limp.

I am acutely aware of each pair of eyes focused on my progress, just as I can hear each misery-laced breath that Cray draws.  I know that it is not my place to question the practice of justice here.  I don’t have to like it, but I do have to honor it.

Although Katniss doesn’t watch my approach, she reaches for my hand and draws me to her side.  “You can be silent,” she tells me.

“But I should speak,” I counter.  I am now a citizen of Samland, it seems, and with that title comes this horrible responsibility.  When she does not refute it, I know I am beginning to understand the way of things.

I add my voice: “Peeta of Denmark… _son_ of Everdeen.”  My eyes burn with tears for the father I’d had for such a short time.  I am almost angry enough to want Cray to suffer under the whip in my name.  My hands shake.  Everyone waits for me to demand another lash, but I do not know the words.

The councilwoman uses the ax to gesture toward the whip.

A thought occurs to me.  I ask my wife, “Can you take the ax and end this?”

She shakes her head.  “The way of his death is Cray’s choice.”

I almost want to make the decision for him.  From the way he clings to the post and cringes deeper into his battered skin, I know he is not yet ready to greet death.  He should be.  He ought to be.  This death by bloody inches is cruel to all of us.

Everyone is still waiting.  I let out a deep breath as I give in.  “How do I say it?” I ask my wife.

She tugs on my arm until I bend down so she may carefully slip the words into my ear.  I straighten.  I speak.

The whip licks across Cray’s back.  Another rivulet of blood appears, drips like saliva from the mouth of beast.  We are the beast and he our prey.  The maw opens: people step forward swiftly now, their voices shaking with rage.  A name, a lash, another dram of blood to pay the debt.

Again… and again… and again.

I do not have to look to know that beside Katniss stands a sickened-looking Prim and hard-eyed Haymitch, and on his other side is Gale and then Rory.  Boggs, Thresh, Mason, Mitchell, Chaff, Thom, and many others I recognize have all stepped forward, and people are still crossing from the audience.  I hear kind-hearted Hazelle, our hostess from the night before, call out and—

_Crack!_

The sight of Cray is enough to make anyone cringe now.  The torn skin, ripped muscles, the blood… he will never recover from this.  His sharp moans resist the effort of the wind to carry them away.  Cray is still alive, both not for long and for far too long.  I scan the crowd and locate Alma.  His face is unreadable, but surely no father should be forced to watch the flesh being flogged from his child’s body.  Surely no father would be able to _allow_ this cruelty to continue.

I turn back around and refuse to look away again.  I never have for the other deaths I’ve witnessed: beheadings and slit throats.  A Northman does not cringe from such things.  A man or woman’s passing into the realm of Death must be attended, honored, acknowledged.  But this is like nothing I have ever seen before.  To watch a man’s flesh be ripped from his body one lick of leather at a time—  To hear it.  To smell it in the blood-splattered dust.  To taste it on your palate.  To feel the air vibrate with each strike of the whip.

My mouth floods with saliva, a precursor to retching, but I refuse to let my belly lurch.

This is a nightmare.

But it isn’t.

Cray passes out.

They wake him with a bucket of water across his face.

It continues.

It continues even after it ends. 

Even after Cray sobs for the ax.  Even after Alma delivers the killing blow without a word to his despondent and suffering son.  Even after I numbly share a platter and cup with Katniss at dinner, her father’s chair still empty beside her.  Even after I urge her to go with her sister to visit her father’s body, to tell him that his killer has been punished.  Even after I follow Haymitch to the old man’s musty room and sink down onto a battered chest.  Even after Katniss’ mentor presses his flask into my hand.

He mutters something which could be a comment on my lack of bloodlust.  Surprising for a Northman.  He could be saying anything, but he seems to say it with equal measures of sarcasm and softness.  He pats my shoulder and takes a seat across from me on the unkempt bed and we share silence.

Even after all of this, Cray’s death continues to loop through my thoughts.  I hate him for what he’d done to Everdeen and to Katniss.  I hate him for what his cowardice had just made me do.  I’d joined my voice with the others’ and drawn his blood when he could have chosen a quick death.  He _should have_ chosen a quick death.  I have never intentionally caused suffering.  I have never wanted to.  Even when Sweyn’s men had attacked Trelleborg last spring, I’d used my fists well, swiftly incapacitating my enemy.  Even with the boar that had destroyed both my leg and any chance I would have had to fight in my father’s name and give him pride, even then I’d had no thought of making the creature suffer as I already had, flesh torn open upon the blood-soaked forest floor.

I have never knowingly made anyone or anything suffer agony as a precursor to death.

Katniss’ words from earlier echo in my ears – _“Cray killed our king.  Now we will kill him.”_ – and I shudder with revulsion.  I lower my face into my hands and try not to let my own thoughts touch me.

It’s an impossible goal.

For the first time since I’d seen Katniss on the road to Trelleborg, I don’t have the desire, the will, or the strength to look into her eyes.  I’m glad I’m here with Haymitch tonight.  I’m not ready to face what I’ve done, what we’ve done.  I’m not ready to look into her eyes and see myself reflected there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word “fey” has several possible origins, one of which is from Old Norse: feigr, which means “doomed”… so it is definitely not a good thing to be. Also, the Norse believed that your fate was immutable, so you just had to suck it up and do the best you could with what the gods (or Norn, the three female giantesses who wove the yarn of fate) had given you to work with.
> 
> I tried to reference actual Norse punishment practices (I’m still not very confident of my sources), but Samland’s version of justice (and the various ways of avoiding it) is completely my own invention. From what very little research I’ve done, Norse punishments did not include whippings, so this is a big culture shock moment for Peeta.
> 
> Yes, even gentle Primrose asks for another lash to be added to Cray’s punishment. As Everdeen’s daughter, she pretty much has to. If you valued the life of your deceased family member and you want their memory to be respected, then you’ll want their killer to atone for the crime. (That's Samish logic, as per Manny, for you.)
> 
> There’s also an element of closure to the Samish system of justice that I’ve invented. Once a killer has been found guilty and punished (and the family of the victim has been allowed some say in the severity of that punishment), all “debts” are paid. The killer’s family doesn’t suffer any dishonor nor are they ostracized from the community. (These concepts will be implied - rather than explicitly stated - later as these kinds of ideas on justice and atonement would have been generally accepted by Peeta and Katniss in my story. What Peeta disagrees with is the method of Cray’s death and his father’s lack of support. Peeta doesn’t appreciate being an instrument that is used to make someone suffer needlessly… and yes, in Peeta’s opinion, Cray suffered needlessly. He deserved death – some pain, perhaps – but not agony.)


	68. Saying Goodbye

(Katniss)

 

The song fills up every corner of the world.  The patches of sunlit grass and the dips of shadowed alcoves alike brim with it.  My lips move, but no sound emerges.  I can’t sing.  Not now.  Maybe one day, a season, a year, a lifetime from now, I’ll be able to say goodbye to my father, but not now.  Not today.

I stare at the mound of freshly tilled earth.  The song is meant to guide the spirit from the darkness onward to the realm of the dead where our glorious ancestors await, but I am not ready for him to leave me.

I close my eyes and tears squeeze out onto my lashes where the morning breeze kisses them cool.  Sitting beside my father’s body all night had done nothing to make this easier.  Seeing him so still and pale had been its own brand of horror, but I can’t help but be glad that I hadn’t been present for the bathing and wrapping.  Prim had seen to that the day after the attack.  Of the two of us, I am convinced that she is the stronger one.

She had tended to our father.  She had kept his body safe until his killer had been punished.  I was only sorry that it had taken so long, that my father’s spirit has been kept from its final rest for days.  But I can’t help but be grateful that Haymitch had not tried to force Peeta and I back to the fortress.  He’d sent us allies, met us at Hazelle’s, and kept the witnesses safe from Alma’s conniving until Peeta and I had been ready to face the council.

I can’t help thinking that Prim would have weathered all that much better than I.  I’d barely managed to last one night guarding our father’s remains even with my sister slumped and gently snoring beside me on the bench in the meeting room.  I’d wanted Peeta, but he hadn’t said a word to me since Cray’s whipping, and when he’d silently veered toward Haymitch’s room after dinner, I’d let him go.

“I’ll look after him,” my mentor had sworn.  “You make peace with your papa.”

Peace.  That is what all of this is for, isn’t it?

And yet I feel so alone.  Peeta stands on my left and Prim on my right.  Haymitch is here, as is Gale.  Chaff stands with Peeta.  Thresh and the others hover a step behind, shielding our backs.  Prim clutches my arm, but I do not reach out for my husband.  I fist my hand and try to swallow back my grief.  I cannot let it out yet.  I cannot let go of my pain.  I need it.  It fuels me and I have one more task ahead.

The song ends and people drift away, back to the village or the fortress.  Life must continue onward.  There is breakfast to prepare and eat and following that—

“Will I speak to you before the forum convenes?” Prim whispers.

I don’t know.

She pulls me into a warm embrace and then joins the crowd, returning to the fortress with Haymitch and Rory.  Gale and Chaff linger, stepping back to give me the illusion of privacy, and Peeta remains, as silent and still as stone.

I am not good at speaking, and I cringe at the prospect of exposing him like a raw nerve, but I am his wife and I think he needs to purge his thoughts.  He needs someone to hear him.  He needs to know that he matters.

Fumbling and clumsy, I begin.  “Be angry,” I invite, my voice too loud and uneven.

After a moment, he shakes his head.  That and no more.

It is not natural for him to be so silent and tense.  “Speak.  Please.”

Sunlight ripples across his beard as his jaw clenches.  “Yesterday—what honor was there in that?”

I’m startled by his choice of remark.  Of all the things that are wrong in the world, he utters this?  “It was Cray’s decision,” I remind him.

“No.  I mean—”  He speaks through gritted teeth.  I’ve never heard such a sound from him before.  “What have I become?  I added my voice to extend his pain.  He was not ready to die.”

I study Peeta’s profile, trying to understand.  “Do you forgive him?”

“I will never forgive him, but he had the right to die well.”  He huffs out a breath in response to my continued frown.  “We should have given him that, Katniss.  We should have let him prepare himself!”

The way my father had prepared himself for death.  Yes, I think I see now.  But he is forgetting one thing—

“Your voice, Peeta, gave respect to my father.  Our father.  That was our duty.”

“I did not like it.”

“Me as well!”  Does he believe I’d wanted to watch Cray bleed out?  Does he think I will not suffer the sight of it in my nightmares?  When he blinks, turns toward me, and gapes with dawning comprehension, I realize that he hadn't considered my response to those things at all.  I’m too exhausted to bother cultivating my anger.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.  He reaches for my hand.  My grip is tighter than his but he doesn’t react.

“No… _I_ am sorry.”  I bite my lip and stare at our joined hands.  “Peeta.  There is another thing.  Another duty.”

He braces himself halfheartedly.  There is no point in fighting it.  Whatever is demanded of us, we will do, even if it scoops out our guts, dries our bodies to husks and shatters them.  “What is it?”

I want to give him a choice, but I know I cannot.  “Cray is dead.  My father has peace now.  Our family has justice.  But Alma—”  My throat locks.

“Alma will try again.”

I nod.  “He is strong.  People respect him more now.  His son did wrong and he did not buy the hits with silver.  He did not fight our law.  He says his son was alone and wrong.  He says he – Alma – was my father’s friend.  Some people want to believe him.”

Peeta and I study each other.  We are both too tired for games and too weary for guessing.

“Alma and I will speak to the council,” I say, sharing the report Haymitch had given me when he’d pulled me from my father’s side so that he could be carried out to the meadow.  “It is an old custom – they will decide the next leader.”

“But… your father indicated that he wanted you to succeed him.”

“Yes, but my people are not, um, together.  Some choose me.  Others choose Alma.  The council will decide so there will be no fighting.”

“And everyone will respect the council’s decision?”

“Most.”  His arched brows demand an explanation.  I give it: “If Alma is king, Harald will attack.  If you are king and I am queen, Alma will attack us _again._   In secret, I think.”  Drawing a deep breath, I say, “I must kill him.”

“No.  _No.”_

“Peeta…”

 _“No,_ Katniss.  You _can’t._   The punishment—!”

I nod.  “Thirteen hits.  I know.”

“Plus the revenge his family will seek!”  He shakes his head furiously.  “I cannot let you do this.”

“This is not your choice, Peeta.”

“But it is _yours_ and I am asking you not to do it.”

“Who will Alma kill next?  Who will come between us and him?  Chaff?  Gale?  Haymitch?  We must protect them.”

“Then… let it be me.  I will do it.  I’ll kill him.”

I cannot imagine what the offer is costing him.  Peeta is not a warrior.  He does not take lives, as I do, he saves them, shelters them.

“No.  He is _my_ enemy.  Mine.  I want this.  I will do it.”  I tilt my chin up and await his next objection.  I face my husband fully.  I will fight as long and as hard as I must in order to win.  Peeta senses this.  His shoulders slump.

“I can’t deny that you’ve every right to seek revenge, but we must take care.  We need a solid plan and the help of our allies and…”  He glances around, his jaw locked and eyes swimming with tears of anger.  His lips press tightly together and his breaths heave.  “Let me take you away as soon as it is done.  Let us go back to Denmark.  If Alma is dead, Samland is safe from Harald.”

I allow that last point may be true, but I cannot agree to leave.  I cannot abandon my country if it needs a leader, but Peeta needs this.

I grope for alternatives.  It would be easier to let Káto repay Alma’s treachery in kind, but what kind of leader lets others fight her battles for her?  What kind of leader lets foreigners dispense justice against her people and within her country’s borders?  The very idea makes me ill.  It would be easier to accept exile after dispatching my enemy myself, but what kind of leader flees her homeland with her lover without ensuring a peaceful succession?

No one my father would be proud to call his daughter.

I would give anything to go with Peeta, to go back to that simple life of sheep shearing and river fishing, to evenings spent whispering at the hearth, to the knocking of the loom and the warmth of his body as we share a fleece between us.  I would give anything to be that selfish, to not have a care for the mess I would leave behind.

“Promise me,” he urges.

I cannot promise to be his wife first and foremost, so I remind him of another promise, one I have already made.  One I have no intention of breaking.  “I promise I will live.”

A shudder rolls through his big body; I feel it in our handclasp.  I weave slightly on my feet, wanting to be closer to him but knowing that if our positions were reversed, I would most certainly respond by pushing him away.

Peeta is not me.  He doesn’t hesitate to wrap me up in himself, tuck me into his warmth, hide me from the eyes of the Fates.  As long as I am in his arms, nothing can harm me.

“I will live.  You will live.”  That is all I can promise him.

Uncaring of our distant audience, he presses his lips to my cheekbone.  “I cannot lose you.  You carry my heart.  Take care with it.”

I nod.  “I will keep you safe.”

“And I will keep you with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up is Peeta's POV. I think you'll be surprised by the disparity between what Katniss thinks he said and what he was deliberately not saying. (^_~)


	69. The Forum

(Peeta)

 

When Katniss had come to Haymitch’s room to collect me for the funeral, I’d briefly thought it odd that she was dressed as if for battle: boots, leg wrappings, tunic, leather vest, knife and ax, bracers and braided hair.  I’d expected her to wear a gown for this farewell, but then again my wife is not a lady.  She is a shield maiden.  As she’d stood beside the king’s grave, her very presence had seemed to be swearing an oath to protect her people.

Her strength had pierced the cloud of disgust which had been clinging to me since the day before, had drawn out my thoughts like poison from a wound… and then had stabbed me through the heart: _“I must kill Alma.”_

I understand that she cannot allow Alma’s continued sleights against her family to pass without response.  I can’t disagree that the man has to die – he has proven both his persistence and intellect as with his attempts to capitalize on every opening he is given – but Katniss had been talking nonsense when she’d insisted on being the one to face him _alone._

My wife is many things, but never a fool.  She may _wish_ that it be her hand that deals the deathblow – perhaps it will be – but I won’t stand idly by while she risks her life.  In fact, such a risk goes against the oaths she and I have made to each other.  Her life isn’t only her own anymore: she cannot do whatever she likes with it just like I cannot do whatever I like with mine.

Katniss may despise the thought of using our friends as if they were mere weapons or shields, but they are our friends for a reason: they will come to our aid if we call.  We _must_ call.  Imagining Katniss confronting a man as crafty and cunning as Alma makes my stomach clench with dread.  Katniss battles head-on.  Alma excels at the unanticipated side-strike.  He’ll be expecting her assault.  He’ll be ready to hit her hard, slipping beneath her guard.  There is nothing I have seen of Alma that leads me to believe he will not utilize every underhanded scheme in his arsenal to win.

_We cannot underestimate him, Katniss._

All I need is a moment to slip away from the fortress and speak with Káto.  He will help us.  He’ll probably even insist on being the one to slay the wretch – oh, how many problems that would solve! – and then we’ll leave, all of us together.  The ships are not far.  I know my brother to speak on Katniss’ behalf to Harald.  He has spoken for me many times before.  He will be my voice once more and everything will be fine.  Katniss will be safe and Alma will be dead and everything can go back to the way it had been before Gale and the others had intruded on us in the woods.  Katniss and I can go back to living for each other.  I was never meant to be a king and I abhor how royal responsibilities weigh upon my wife.  I just want her to be free, as free as any freed woman is.  Although her wrists are long since healed, those bloody bindings are still there, shackling her to duty.

The dining hall echoes with voices.  People speak too loudly and laugh too abruptly in an effort to ignore how subdued the natural silence is.  I push our day-meal platter in Katniss’ direction, urging her to eat something but her hands remain clenched into fists in her lap.

“Do not falter now,” I bid her softly, selecting a sliver of hard cheese and presenting it to her as delicately as my hand, which seems oddly large and awkward today, can manage.  “Eat.”

She meets my gaze and I’m relieved by the resignation in her features.  “I don’t want to,” she confesses even as she takes the morsel from my fingers.

There are many things she does not want to do that I know she must.  As for me, I do not want to watch as, day by day, she gives more and more to her country until she has nothing left.  I do not want her to belong to anyone other than herself.

Uncaring of whether the men of this country are discouraged from showing their wives affection in public, I lean over and lingeringly press one, two, three kisses to Katniss’ temple.  I cup the side of her head in my hand, her tightly woven hair caressing my palm, and I breathe deeply.

She leans into me.

We are going to be all right.

As the meal concludes and people begin to rise and drift about in the hall, Haymitch stomps over to consult with Katniss.  There is something about the tenor of his voice and the angle of his brows, his searching gaze and gentle hands that makes me believe he knows.  He knows what Katniss will do.  Is this what they had discussed yesterday behind closed doors?  Is this the terrible shift that I’d sensed?

As he straightens, I catch his eye.  _You must help Katniss and me do this thing._   I think the words as forcefully as I can.  My gaze flickers meaningfully toward Katniss and I press my lips together tightly, inclining my head in a gesture of expectation.

Haymitch’s brows arch at this and I glare up at him unblinkingly.   _“No, this is not a request,”_ I do not utter.

Before he can do more than open his mouth, a server appears to take our unemptied platter.  I do not abandon our staring contest until Katniss tugs on my sleeve.

“Peeta,” she whispers hoarsely.  A puzzled frown tugs at her features as she shifts her gaze from me to Haymitch and back again, “The council will sit here now.”

“Now?”  She stands and I follow suit out of reflex.

“Yes.”

So soon.  “They’ll hear you and Alma _now?”_ I check, moving aside with her and hugging the wall as seats are moved and tables picked up and relocated.  When she nods, I ask, “How long will it take them to reach a decision?”  How much time will we have to devise a way to bring Káto and the others into the fortress?  Or perhaps we should lure Alma out to them?

She shrugs.  “The last time was long ago – they chose my grandfather’s father’s father.”

So there is no telling how much time we have to prepare.  I squeeze her hand between both of mine.  It’s a struggle to stay silent but Katniss doesn’t need to know that I’ve yet to determine how we’re going to confront Alma before the council reaches a decision.  I’ve promised her a plan and I don’t have one.  She needs to know this, but I know I mustn’t break her focus now.  She needs to prepare herself for addressing the council and her people.  What she says here today could be the difference in how our actions will be perceived.

The council members arrange themselves along the king’s table, which had been pushed back to make room at the front of the dais.  The king’s magnificent chair and our seats have all been set aside and replaced by simple, wooden benches.  The crowd in the hall parts for Alma, and he is not alone.  A dozen men and women follow in his wake.

A motion to my right draws my gaze.  Haymitch, Boggs, Thresh, and many others line up along the wall.  I keep my grip on Katniss’ hand; my ignorance makes me wary of the coming events.  And, from the unrelenting strength of her replying grasp, I know she is equally uncertain.

The council gestures for both Alma and Katniss to stand at either end of the long table.  I do what I can to hide my uneven gait as I accompany her.  I try not to stare out at the crowd in fear as my mind races.  What if the council does not need a recess before announcing their decision?  What will happen if Katniss is not chosen?  Will Alma’s first act be to kill her?  Will we be allowed to leave the country, the fortress, the keep?  I scan the assembly for Prim – if escape is a necessity, would she come with us or choose to remain behind?  Should Katniss and I even offer her a choice?

I damn myself for not fetching Káto on the way back from the funeral.  He should be here.  Perhaps he is.  I search each face, hoping to see a familiar pair of blue eyes peering out from the shadows of a hood.  But it’s too much to hope that he’d snuck into the fortress on a whim and stumbled – unseen – upon this gathering.

I glance at the line of friends and comrades beside us.  Are they prepared to help us?  I cannot count on it.  I must assume that Katniss and I stand alone.

One by one, the people who have assembled upon the platform step forward.  I cannot understand their words, of course, but from their confident voices and eager gestures toward their chosen candidate, I imagine that they are lauding good deeds, courage, and other necessary qualities.

Hazelle speaks for Katniss.  As does Thresh and Boggs.  Rory and the fierce woman who governs the kitchens here in the fortress.  Gale keeps his silence, perhaps because of his dual service to both Katniss’ mentor and nemesis.  There are others, but I do not know their names or livelihoods.  Haymitch is last and he says the fewest words, but what he does say manages to roll through the crowd, as if he’d made the earth quake.  As if a lighting strike had accompanied those meager syllables.

I will have to ask Katniss what he’d said later.

And then it is time for the candidates to speak.

Alma steps up to the center of the dais and unhooks the ax from his belt.  I recognize the curve of the blade and the stains on the handle.  It is the same one he’d used to end his son’s life the day before.  He raises it up for all to see, utters some sort of vow, and then places it reverently upon the table before the head councilwoman.

And then he speaks.

And speaks.

And _speaks._

The cadence of his voice lulls and excites.  I watch the effect he has over the crowd.  Waves of sympathy, anger, and determination buffet me.  I do not think I am imagining them.  Katniss had once told me Alma was a gifted speaker.  Even without understanding his words, I can see the truth in that.

And then his words come to an end.  The silence is so profound I feel it press in on my ears, deafening me to all other voices.  This is Alma’s power.

Katniss has no hope of countering something like this, but she must try.

An arm passes in front of me and I nearly jump out of my own skin.  Haymitch reaches across my chest, passing Katniss a single arrow.  She levels her gaze upon me and my heart pounds.  This is it.  She will speak and the council will decide and at some time in between the two, we will make an attempt on Alma’s life.  I cannot afford to assume that he isn’t anticipating it, doesn’t already have a plan to counter it, won’t hesitate to strike first.  My fingers curl even tighter around her hand.

“I must speak now,” she whispers.  Her voice is gentle.  And then rough: “Let go.”

I do.

Alma gives her a gracious nod of acknowledgement as she approaches.  I hold my breath and wait for Katniss to present her weapon to the crowd, make her vow, and set it upon the table just as he had.

She doesn’t.

She does not even look at her assembled countrymen.

She looks only at Alma as she strides toward the center of the platform.  Toward him.

What is she—?

She shifts the arrow in her grasp, aiming the point through the bottom of her fist.  Her jaw clenches and eyes narrow.  I know this look.  I’ve seen it during battle.

Alma recognizes it as well.  He tenses.  His hand grips the knife on his belt.

A shock of terror spears my gut.  _No._   Gods, _no!_   She cannot do this here, now, in front of _everyone!_

I lurch forward, but I know I’ll be too late.  Denial clogs my throat.  A hand – Haymitch’s – grabs the back of my tunic.

Katniss does not stop, does not slow, does not flinch as Alma unsheathes his weapon.  Her pace quickens, arrow clutched tightly in her hand.  He leaps back, swipes the blade toward her neck—

Fear freezes my heart, locks my knees.  _Katniss!_

But Alma’s knife slices through nothing.

She has already ducked down, is rolling under his arm, rising up inside his guard and—!

He chokes-gasps-wheezes.  The shaft of the arrow twitches with either the final beats of his heart or the pounding of Katniss’ pulse.  Blood spurts out over my wife’s hand – her small but powerful hand – which holds the metal point buried in his flesh.  She twists her arm, grinding the arrowhead deeper, carving it through his black, oily-and-rotting heart.

Alma’s eyes widen.  His knees weaken.  He slides toward the wooden floor.

Katniss says not a word.  She lets him fall, but she does not release the arrow.  The weight of his body yanks the weapon from his chest with a stomach-rolling, _wet-and-sucking_ sound.  The crash of Alma’s lifeless body striking the dais echoes in the stunned silence.

I gape, heart beating through my throat and Haymitch’s restraining grasp forgotten, as my wife lifts her bloodied hand and arrow.  She says one word to the stunned-silent audience before pivoting and carefully placing the weapon upon the table beside the equally blood-stained ax of her former opponent.  She says one word and only one word:

“Samland.”

And my heart, cradled beneath my swollen tongue, shatters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup. Katniss totally went there. Spoiler Alert: Peeta is totally going to lose his shit over it.


	70. Betrayal

(Katniss)

 

Betrayal.

The brief glimpse I’d been given of Peeta’s face before the hall had erupted into chaos had revealed that and only that.

I don’t understand.

I’d told him my intentions.  He’d agreed that it had to be done.

Hadn’t he?

I scrub at the blood on my right hand, soiling the water in the basin of my cell.  There is a hearth, two benches that can be lined up end-to-end to serve as a bed, a pitcher of water, and a basin.  I dry my hands on the hem of my tunic.

Then I sink down onto a bench and contemplate the congealed blood still clinging beneath my fingernails.  Alma’s blood on my hands.  I don’t mind seeing it there.  Peeta would.  _Does._ But he is a gentler person than I am.  I brace my elbows on my knees and scowl at the floor, wondering what I’d done wrong, irritated that he has made me doubt myself.

No.  Nothing is in doubt.  My current predicament is precisely what I’d anticipated it would be.  It certainly won’t take all day to collect witnesses and evidence to prove my guilt, but the meetings addressing crimes are customarily held in the morning and punishments delivered before breakfast.  I fully expect to be spending the night in here.  I’d thought it would be nice if Peeta could join me, but now I’m not sure if I want him to.

If blue eyes could bleed…

I shake my head.  Sigh.  Squeeze my eyes shut.

It’s easier to focus on Alma’s last _great_ speech, his insistence that we must fight invasion at all costs.  True to form, he’d pushed his agenda to befriend the king of Norway, claiming that Harald Bluetooth has no need to make peace with Samland; our humble country cannot help him in his dealings with Norway.  We have no ships, no army, no wealth to aid him.  But we do have something that Sweyn would be pleased to possess.

And then he’d mentioned Peeta.

_“Do you believe **this** Northman will protect us when Harald comes calling?  Do you believe he can?  He is but one man!  And not even a warrior!  He is a traitor to his own father!  You have seen what response I, a father, had to such a child!”_

Yes.  _You let him die for your own sake, you ruthless swine._

I do not regret killing Alma.  A man like that should not even be considered for the office of king.  Had the people seen through him?

_“Do you wish to know how we will defeat our enemies?  I will tell you.  Our burden is Sweyn’s treasure.  Harald’s son knows much that could assist the king of Norway in making war upon Denmark.  So we will send this Northman, who is useless to us, abroad.  We will give Sweyn an invaluable advantage over his enemy.  And then we will watch as Harald is destroyed!”_

But Peeta does not have that knowledge and I will not let him be a piece in Alma’s game.  In that moment atop the dais, I hadn’t cared about anything other than stopping Alma’s words once and for all.

So I had.

I’d killed him, said my piece, laid my arrow down before the council, and then I’d looked up at Peeta—

By the gods and our ancestors.   _Why_ had he looked so betrayed?

An ache twinges between my eyes.  Just as I reach up to rub my forehead, the door opens.  I nearly tumble backward off the bench in my haste to sit up straight.

I frown as the door shuts swiftly behind him.  “What are you doing here, Haymitch?  Where’s Peeta?”

“Oh, trust me.  You don’t want him to come in here right now, dumpling.  But don’t worry,” he smoothly continues as I draw a breath to speak.  “Bell-berry’s with him.  She’ll calm him down a bit.  Hopefully.”

Stomping to my feet, I throw my hands up in the air.  “Calm him down.  _Calm_ him down?  He should not be angry in the first place!  I told him this would happen!”

“And he clearly thought he’d be able to stop you from going through with it.”  Haymitch smirks at my blank stare.  “I guess he thought he’d have more time to recruit that brother of his to do the honors.”

I shake my head.  “I told him I wanted it.  Alma was mine.”

“And you and I both know that you had every right to take him on.”  He scuffs closer and grabs my shoulder, his touch made warm and firm from our shared camaraderie.  “It was an honorable kill.  You gave Alma time to arm and defend himself.  You struck fast.  Mercifully, even.”

“Well, if you wanted me to make him suffer, you should have said something,” I gripe, irked that he hadn’t bothered to advise me on this at all beforehand and _now_ he complains about my actions.

His rough chuckle bounces off of the wooden walls.  “There’s no point in counseling you, dumpling.  I’ve resigned myself to reporting in and then stepping back to wait until it’s time to clean up your messes.”

“Have I made a mess?”

“No, actually,” he responds, surprising me with his honest candor.  Meeting my gaze, he confesses in a tone I’d only ever heard him use with my father, a tone of reverence: “It had to be you.”  He pauses, winces, scowls as if he has a toothache.  “Alma and I have always been too evenly matched, too good at these games.  But throwing you into the mix, I knew you’d do something reckless and wild.  Something he wouldn’t have anticipated.  You take risks he can’t even imagine.”

I stare at him, at a loss for words.

He grins shyly.  “You surprised me, dumpling.  It wasn’t the first time and it won’t be the last.”  He shakes his head in reluctant admiration.

Admiration for me.

I can’t believe my eyes.  “But… there had to be another way.”

“Oh, several, but there was only one way your people were ever gonna have a hope of trusting you again, and that was if you acted openly.”

“And then accepted the consequences.”  I sigh.  “Will I be forgiven?”

“Dumpling, there are two men with bare feet out there right now telling the council how you gave them the opportunity to protect their families from Alma’s wrath.  I guess he had quite the temper behind closed doors.  What a surprise, eh?”

His bubble of humor is as weak as my smile.  “That wasn’t the reason why I spared them.”

“No, but the fact that Harald’s heir gave them to you to do with what you willed…”  He shrugs.  “Well, there’s hope for that alliance yet, isn’t there?”

It dawns on me that when Haymitch had spoken of trust, he hadn’t been speaking of the distant future.  He is talking about _now._   “Are you suggesting that the council – that our people – would still consider me?”

“You and Peeta both,” he corrects, victory shining in his eyes.

“If I survive the vengeance Alma’s family will exact from me.”

He rolls his eyes in mock exasperation.  “Given Gale’s testimony about Alma’s underhanded plans for you on your wedding day, I’m reasonably certain no one will mind if we choose silver over lashes.”

“Not the first thirteen,” I croak.  “That is the consequence of my actions.  I accept them.  But Alma’s family can feed more mouths with silver than with vengeance.”

Haymitch stares at me for a long moment, studying and weighing, and then he smiles.  I can’t remember ever seeing a more genuinely happy expression on his face.  “You’re ready.”

“For what?”

“To be queen.  My work with you is done, dumpling.  I guess this means I can till myself a garden.  Raise some geese.  Settle down in the quiet life.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”  He considers me with narrowed eyes.  “You can do this.”

“I know.”

He pats me on the cheek for what I suspect is the last time, and then he leaves.  The instant the door shuts, it bounces back open and Peeta shoves his way past my mentor before slamming and locking it behind him.

I have never seen him so completely, gloriously furious.  A thrill dances through me, scattering the gentle warmth Haymitch had left in his wake.  I brace myself for battle.

He heaves out a heated breath and rasps with unexpected softness, “You need to come with me.  Tonight.  We’re going to Denmark.”

“Peeta—”

“No.  You promised.”

“I promised to live.”

“And this is how you will do that.”

“I can live after thirteen hits.”

“But I can’t stand aside and watch it!”  The admission sparks another, hotter than the first, “How could you do that?  How could you risk your life?  In front of everyone!  After your promise – you gave me your word, Katniss and then you went out there and—”

“It was a good kill—”

“It didn’t have to be you!  It shouldn’t have been you!  It should have been _us!_   You had no right to endanger yourself – _alone—!”_

“You agreed!”

“I agreed that he had to die.  I _never_ agreed to just stand there while you stabbed an arrow into his heart!”  He uncurls his fisted hands.  Through gritted teeth, he accuses, “You did not give me a choice.”

I subside.  He’s right.  Yet again, I fetter him.

“So I am not giving you one,” he continues.  “You are coming to Denmark with me.”

“Peeta.  We must stay.”  This is only the beginning.  Can’t he see that?  There is so much we have yet to do – the alliance with Harald is possible and there will be further attacks from Sweyn to defend against and— “Samland needs—”

“No.”  There is no leniency in his eyes, in the set of his mouth, in the hunch of his shoulders.  “I cannot do this.  I cannot give… _this._   I can’t.  This is my limit.”

I swallow; the motion makes my throat hurt.  If he cannot be king… if he cannot stay… then there is only one option left for him.  For us both.  And I hate him for choosing it, but that is his right.  It has always been his right.  “Very well.  Then, when you leave, do not return.”

His brows pinch together.  “What?”

“When you sail back to Denmark with Káto, you can never return.  Do you understand?  I cannot know you will be safe here.  You cannot return.”

“Katniss—”

“No!  Don’t!  I chose you once and it was wrong.  I cannot choose you again!  I cannot think of only me.  I cannot be only your wife, Peeta!  Go home.  Marry a milkmaid.”

He sucks in a harsh breath.

I want to fight for him, but I have nothing left.  My every weapon and method of persuasion is exhausted.  He has seen it all – the wealth and the sacrifice.  That is all I have to offer.

“Go.”  I gesture toward the door, but I do not look at it or at him.  I turn my back on both.  I’ve never been so furious.  My heart throbs and screams and snarls but I cannot pretend to be someone I am not.  I am the daughter of the king of Samland.  My life is not my own.  My heart is not a gift to be given.  It is a burden, a curse, a slave collar.

My people may forgive me for killing Alma.  Once I suffer the whip, they might come to respect me again.  But I will never forgive myself for letting Peeta believe that I could ever be his and his alone.  I was born to serve, to guide, to protect.  If he cannot share that path with me, then it is best that he leave now.

The silence continues.

I hold my breath.

Two footsteps.

The rattle of the lock.

The quiet whisper of the door, like a sigh of defeat.

The subdued thump as it settles back into its frame, like the final beat of a breaking heart.

And he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to strangle Katniss for giving up NOW (after she's spent so long being determined to keep Peeta despite all the odds and obstacles) you are not alone.
> 
> Peeta's POV is coming up next and you guys are going to LOVE IT. I promise.


	71. Heir to a Kingdom

(Peeta)

 

I don’t acknowledge Prim’s worried frown as I shut the door behind me.  I don’t glance in Gale’s direction where he hovers in the corridor, or Chaff’s where he stands beside the door.  I don’t look at Haymitch, but that’s because I’m sure I will put my fist through his face if I do.

Instead, I leave.

I leave because I am too shocked by how quickly Katniss had pushed me away, too angry by how easily she’d misunderstood.  If she thinks I am going back to Denmark without her, she is sorely mistaken.  She won’t thank me for what I’m about to do, but I have made my decision.  In fact, she’ll be furious with me for interfering, but no less than I am for her even _expecting_ me to stand aside and watch as she risked her life to kill a man.

I understand that confrontation had been a battle in and of itself, much like those she’d fought side-by-side with Gale and the others, but _that_ is the difference.  Not for an instant had it been acceptable for her to face Alma on her own.  I am her husband; she is my wife.  She isn’t allowed to ignore the fact that her fate and mine are _entwined._

Entwined and, soon, no longer governed by this place.  We are leaving.  She’d decided to gamble with her life; I have decided to save it.

Despite the sense of it, I know she won’t cooperate.  I’d considered the use of force – backing her into a corner, throwing her over my shoulder, and hauling her away.  I’d considered arguments – reminding her that the threat Alma had represented is gone.

I know neither will succeed.  Katniss can only be swayed by one thing: heartache.  She needs to realize that what she is doing _now_ is selfish.  She needs to see that the people who care about her will be damaged by this undertaking, but my words are not good enough.  She does not trust me to speak without bias.

Fortunately, I know someone who might be able to sway her.

No one tries to stop me as I make my way out of the fortress and down the road through the surrounding village.  Reaching Hazelle’s door, I pound my fist against it before calling out.

There is no answer.

Testing the door, I find it unlocked.  Swinging it open, the first thing I see is an etching upon the dirt floor.  A rough map.  It shows the fortress and the surrounding forest.  It shows a nearby campsite marked in runes.  I wipe the floor smooth again before heading in that direction.

It doesn’t take long to find my brother and his friends.

“You got my message,” Káto says, standing up from his seat upon a fallen tree.  I forestall my urgency long enough to permit him to grasp my arm in greeting.  “From here we can still see the fortress and I knew you’d send word if you needed—”

“Alma is dead,” I tell him.

His brows arch.  Johanna and Finnr, having overheard this, shift closer with interest.

Káto remarks with lighthearted enthusiasm, “Excellent.  Wish I’d been there to see it.”

I grit my teeth.  Seeing this, he glances over my shoulder toward the village.  Cranes his neck.  His gaze flicks left and right.  “Where is Katniss?”

“Being held for his murder.”

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t look surprised.  “Did she kill him?”

“Yes.  In full view of everyone.  In front of the council!  He nearly took her head off, but she—”  I take a deep breath.  I relate how it had happened, how she’d done it before a decision had been made and new leader chosen, how I’d thought I would have more time so that Káto could dispatch the man instead, how Katniss had even permitted her enemy to arm himself before she’d attacked!  My words are jumbled to even my own ears but, somehow, Káto follows the tale.  The others say nothing as I conclude, “She laid the bloodied arrow down with a single word – ‘ _Samland.’_   Alma is dead, and she’ll be whipped for it.”

My brother rubs his lips together thoughtfully.  “And you are not proud of her?”

Has he lost his mind?  “Why would I be?”

He crosses his arms and replies lightly, “Because it would be easier to choose exile, which she clearly hasn’t done if she’s still in there and you’re out here.”

I shake my head.  “I’m bringing her back to Denmark with us.  Tonight.”

“Has Katniss agreed to this?”

“Not yet, but she will listen to you.  You and she, you understand each other.  You’re the same in many ways.  Speak to her as one heir to another.  Please.  Convince her that staying here is unnecessary and foolish!  Tell her there is nothing to be gained by submitting to this punishment!”

Káto shakes his head, smiling in disbelief.  “I can’t do that.”

“What?”

He places a hand on my shoulder.  “From what you have told me, staying here is not foolish.  Yes, she killed a man – her rival – who has been actively working to incite war rather than build peaceful alliances like Katniss has.  She killed him publically and without shame.  She did not try to hide her guilt and she is not trying to avoid punishment.  These are good things, Peeta.  She will be a great queen.”

I cannot believe I’m hearing this.  “You agree with her?  You take her side?”

He laughs.  “Incredible, isn’t it?  But, yes, I do.”

I glance from his amused expression to Már, Finnr, Johanna…  No one contradicts Káto.  Johanna doesn’t call him a brainless moron like she had in the dining hall just days before.  In fact, she looks… impressed.  I don’t understand.

“Peeta,” my brother calls quietly, pulling my attention back to him.  “What if it had been Harald instead of Everdeen?  What if it had been me instead of Katniss?  Would you still be this furious?”

“Are you telling me you would have done the same thing?”

“Well, I would have challenged the whoreson to holmgang, but I don’t suppose they do that here.  From what I’ve seen, they do not seek glory in battle.  All the more reason for her to kill Alma.  Samland is not prepared for war.”  Káto sighs.  I’m frustrating him with my confusion.  “Katniss is abiding by the laws of her country, isn’t she?  She faces them rather than runs from them.  She honors them.  She is behaving exactly as an heir should.”

I gape at him.

“Come.  Walk with me.”  His grip tightens on my shoulder, pulling me away from the others.  I’m too stupefied to resist.  I merely stumble along, trying to make sense of all of this.  How can everything I’d been so sure of be wrong?  It can’t be.  It’s Káto who doesn’t understand!

We traverse some distance before he stops and faces me.  He shakes his head.  When he exhales, his breath is tinged with exasperation.  His gaze is gentle and his voice is soft: “You don’t understand these things, Peeta.  She is who she is.  She was born and raised to fight for the sake of her people.  She can’t change that.  But isn’t that why you asked me to buy her in the first place?  Because you knew she would never submit to being a common slave?  Because she is who she is – wrists bound with bloodied rope?”

I’ve lost track of how many times today I’ve felt an unseen blow to the gut.  I think I might even be getting accustomed to the sensation.

Káto’s fingers squeeze my shoulder.  “These people need Katniss to be that person.  They need her to be a leader.  They need her to make unpleasant decisions, to do whatever must be done for the good of all.  She is protecting her people and she is accepting the consequences of her actions.”

But… if that is true – and from the faint, unpleasant fluttering of realization in my breast I fear it may be – then in that case— “So rather than her betraying me, it is I who have shamed her?  Like I shame you and Harald?”

That startles him.  “What is this nonsense?  What do you mean – _shame?”_

How can he be so blind?  “Káto, you hid me on your farmstead!  Harald wouldn’t even look upon me!  Yes, gods damned it, _shame!_   I am an embarrassment to you both!”

“No.”  He levels a finger at me.  His eyes flash with fire.  “No.  If that were true, would I bring you to Trelleborg two, three, four times a year?  No, I wouldn’t.  I did not _hide_ you.  Our father wouldn’t have stood for it if I’d tried.”

“You dare to say such a thing!” I grit out.  “He is ashamed of me!  And you took me to Trelleborg to show everyone how good and generous you are to your crippled, bastard, slave-born half-brother!”

Káto twitches, his arm drawing back and hand fisting, but he doesn’t strike me.  He draws a single, slow breath.  “If there is any shame,” he answers, his voice made quiet with fury, “it is meant for us, not you.”

His words, though soft, strike like bolts of lightning.  I’m mesmerized with disbelief and dawning horror.  What confessions have I unleashed?

“You stepped in front of that boar.  You screamed for it to take you instead of me.  And it did.”

He shakes me, shoving his words into my ears.

“Every painful, uneven step you take could have been mine.  It could have been me spending my days next to a meal-fire, doing women’s work.  Every day I have – every honor I have fought for and won on behalf of our father – is one that you have given me.  I became a warrior because you interceded on my behalf with the Fates.  I am still a husband and now I am a father to _three_ children.  I am this man because of you and _our father_ knows it!  My mother knows it!  That is why she hates you.  That is why he cannot look you in the eye.  There is no payment equal to the debt _we owe you!”_

I breathe out.  I shudder.  I gawp.  There are tears trembling on my brother’s eyelashes and spilling down his cheeks.

He reaffirms his grip upon my shoulder.  “Peeta, you will be an exceptional king.  That was never in doubt.  Even when you were just a boy, you’d already possessed every quality that a good ruler has.”

I still don’t understand.  “But you said I’d disappointed you.”

“Yes.  You were willfully ignorant of what you’d agreed to when you wed Katniss.”

“No, I—”

“Yes.  You were.  Because you see the truth now and you haven’t accepted it.  It makes perfect sense for Katniss to do this thing.  To kill an enemy.  Openly.  To do it before either of them have been chosen to lead.  To do it while they are equals.  It was an honest fight, with no clear advantages.  She may have fought him as a citizen, but her reasons are those of a queen.”

He draws a cleansing breath.

“Peeta, I was disappointed, but I never doubted your abilities.  My misgivings centered on Katniss.  I was certain she was concealing the whole truth from you _._   I doubted Katniss and I feared her manipulations.  But I do not doubt or fear now.”

He reaches for his belt and unties a small pouch.  It’s one that I recognize.  He places it in my hands.  I weigh the coins through the leather.  This is Katniss’ freedom price.  He must have found it on the forest floor where Katniss had dropped it.  I hadn’t even noticed it was missing.  Neither had I realized what that gesture had meant: she’d dropped it – abandoned the free life it had symbolized – in order to protect me from her countrymen.  She has, in her own subtle and convoluted ways, always put my safety first.  She has always endeavored to put _us_ first.

I am a fool.

I am a fool and, in my ignorance, I’ve lost her.

“It’s too late,” I rasp.  My voice is a broken thing that clatters in the quiet of the forest.  “She told me to go to Denmark without her.  She told me never to come back.”

“And did she tell you why?”

My brother’s uncharacteristic patience defeats my stubbornness.  I give in.  “She said she couldn’t guarantee my safety.”

Káto assures me, “From the first, I knew you were devoted to her, and after all I’ve seen and all you’ve said, I know that she is devoted to you.  She has kept you safe.  She keeps you safe still – Peeta, she lives for you.  Although her every act must benefit her country, it is you she thinks of first.  Are you really going to dishonor her now?”

I don’t even have to think about it.  I close my eyes and let go of my lingering rage.  It drifts away like an echo bounding out of a valley.

“No,” I answer slowly, tightening my fingers around the leather pouch of coins.  “Of course not.  She’s my wife.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Holmgang" was the Norse equivalent of a duel. It was a one-on-one battle of honor. Or something. *is not teh expert on Viking things*
> 
> AND GUYS THIS CHAPTER RIGHT HERE I HAVE BEEN WAITING TO SHARE FOR WEEKS AND WEEKS. Yes, this moment between Peeta and Cato was always going to happen in this story. I love it so much, I just don't have the words.
> 
> Just in case it wasn’t clear in the context of the story, Katniss kills Alma when she does for several reasons.  
> 1) If she waits until the council makes a choice and they choose him to be king, then she’ll receive the same punishment as Cray (i.e., death),  
> 2) If she waits until the council makes a decision and they choose her, then she’ll either have to wait for Alma to make a move (and she can’t let him target her family) or she’ll have to kill him without provocation which will be an abuse of her power (yes, she could try to do it in secret, but I don’t think it would be a “secret” for long),  
> 3) If she kills him before either of them are elected to power, then she’ll be punished like anyone else and once the victim’s family is satisfied, the blood debt is considered paid. (Of course they could still hold a grudge and hate her guts.)
> 
> That’s all I can say for now. (More on the fall out of Alma’s death in the next chapter.)
> 
> For those who may (or not) be interested, my main focus here is not really how believable the Samish justice system is (sorry, but I'm totally owning up to it) but actually the sacrifices that you have to make when you are (a) married and (b) married to a person from a different culture/country and (c) living in a culture/country not your own. I'm also adding in a (d) adjusting your self-image and aspirations. This is basically all the crap Peeta is dealing with right now first hand. I'm actually kind of proud of him for coming through all this (mostly) sane.
> 
> I've been living in a foreign country for almost a decade (and married to a Japanese man for much of that time), and for everything you gain, there is something you give up. For every victory, there is defeat. For every joy, there is pain. So, for me, that's what DSSD is about. I hope you find a special meaning that speaks to you in this story, too.


	72. A King's Work

(Katniss)

 

Prim stays with me through the night even though I tell her to go.  She orders me to stretch out upon the benches and places my head in her lap even though I resist.  She pets my hair.  She sings.  She does not ask me why Peeta had been so furious or why he’d left.

I already know why.  He’d been angered because I had put myself in this position, because I wouldn’t let him protect me, because I hadn’t let anyone else fight this battle for me, because he is incapable of standing back and doing nothing while I step in harm’s way, because he’d loved me too much.

But he’d left because he hadn’t loved me _enough._   That is my fault.  I had not given him enough.  I cannot give him enough.

I don’t sleep.  Neither does Prim.

At dawn, a knock comes on the door.  My heart stutters stupidly and my tongue turns to stone in the moment before Gale pokes his head into the room.  Seeing him, a strange mix of disappointment and relief infuses me.  My blood thins and my pulse slows once more.  Had I really thought my visitor could be Peeta?  No, but I’d hoped.

_Fool._

I am, but at least Peeta has a chance to live a life free of all this.  He deserves that.  I envy him.

I sit up and lean against the wall as Gale sends Prim to her own room for a few hours of rest.  “Chaff will come and tell you when it’s time,” he vows to her.

I’d rather Prim not have to watch, but I’m selfishly glad that she’ll be there.  Between her and Haymitch and Gale, I’ll endure.  I’ll make it through this without disgracing myself.  I will not weep from the pain or from shame or in apology.

I’d earned this punishment.  I will take it gracefully.  Gratefully.  When it is done, I can get on with beginning again.

“I will see you soon, Katniss,” Prim promises.  I allow her to embrace me tightly.  I don’t watch her exit the room.

Gale hesitates by the door for a long moment until I nod to the bench next to mine.  He accepts the invitation, slumping into the seat with a tired sigh.

I’m surprised when I hear myself speak first.  “Haymitch says everyone will still want me to rule.”

“He’s right,” Gale agrees.  “The council spent the rest of the day yesterday hearing testimony.  Alma was one crafty piece of work, but now that everyone can speak freely, the truth is coming to light.”

“What truth?”  I’ve always known the man was an abomination, but he’d had so many supporters that I’d believed him to be well-regarded.

Gale snorts.  “Did you forget his plans for your wedding day?  Or the _medicine_ he’d sent your father?”

Oh.  Yes.  All of those schemes and secrets no longer need to stay hidden.  The people involved no longer have anything to gain by maintaining their silence and nothing to lose in speaking out.  But still…

“He could not have a great number of enemies.”  Alma had been too well-supported for that.

“No,” Gale admits, “but Undersee’s daughter, Madge, has given testimony on the poison he forced her to craft.”

“She’s Thom’s cousin?” I check.

“Yes.  They apprenticed together.  She warned Prim about Alma’s gift.”

I inhale deeply in appreciation.  I doubt my sister would have given the medicine to our father without a thorough inspection first, but I applaud Madge for her bravery.  If Alma had discovered her duplicity, I don’t doubt that she or her father would have paid dearly for it.

“You could plead your innocence,” Gale suggests hesitantly.  “No one will deny that you had every right to respond to Alma’s transgressions against your family.”

“And give his remaining supporters reason to oppose me?  No, Gale.  Alma was a waste of a man, but he _was_ our countryman, and his murderer must be punished.  Once the blood debt is paid, all of this will be finished.”

Gale sighs.  “I know.”  He leans back against the wall.  “You are annoyingly stubborn.  It’s just… you should know that Madge and I weren’t the only ones stepping up before the council on your behalf.”

“Do I have so many friends?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Cat-claw!”  His teasing words squeeze a brief smile from me.  We both know how intimidating I am, which is why my only female confidante is my little sister, who cannot escape me.  Gale adds, “Alma was wretched.  At least you’re honest.”

But I’m not.  I glare down at my fingers as I interlace them and twist.

“Aren’t you?” Gale presses.

“As honest as you, I suppose.  You never told anyone about the slave collar, did you?”

He shakes his head.  “I’m still waiting for that story.”

I bite my lip and jiggle my leg nervously.  I could tell him.  Peeta had even given me leave to reveal his true past back when Gale and our fellow comrades had accused him of spearheading an invasion.  After a moment, I shake my head.  “No.  Not today.  It doesn’t matter, in any case.”

It doesn’t matter what I say about the past.  It is done.  It doesn’t matter what I say about Peeta.  He’s gone.

“He’s an idiot.”

I startle.  “What?”

Gale nods toward the doorway with an arch of his brows that needs no verbal explanation.

My disagreement is a reflex.  It would take me a long time to unlearn it even if I’d wanted to, which I don’t.  I insist, “He is a good man.”

“He’s left the fort.”  Gale shakes his head.  Fury and disbelief rolls off of him in waves.  “He left you.”

It hurts, yes, but I refuse to dwell on it.  Besides, have I not been expecting something like this for weeks?  I told myself I would not hold Peeta a prisoner here.  I’d shown him what he could do as a king, both the good and the bad.  Someday, I will be able to forgive myself for not thinking of a way to avoid the bad indefinitely, but it has never been my habit to shy away from unpleasant things.  I meet them head-on in battle.  I’d thought Peeta had understood that.  Or, perhaps, he’d simply understood too well.

“He left,” I confirm, my voice garbled.  I clear my throat.  “And you never will.”  My gaze finds Gale’s.  “That’s why you are the best warrior in Samland.”

For a moment, he looks pleased and proud, but then his lips tighten and his eyes darken.  “That’s why I was never going to be king, was I?”

“No,” I agree softly, a little shaken by his insight.  This is not the same man who had journeyed to Denmark through innumerable hardships to fetch me back.  Just as with me, recent events have left their mark.  He is changed in a subtle but immutable way: a man of iron will rather than fiery rage.  “But that’s what makes you such a very good friend.  That’s why I trust you with my life.  Because I know you will never give up.  You will never compromise.”

In silence, he reaches out a hand to me.  I take it.  We sit on separate benches, friends once again.  No, that is untrue.  Before we had been rivals and comrades, indulging in pettiness, constantly pushing and poking at each other for the sake of our pride.  Now all of that has been stripped away.  Now we are, _at last,_ friends.

My heart aches for the time we’ve wasted being stubborn.

But no, that is untrue as well.  My heart aches for a far different reason.

Another knock on the door comes, jolting me.  I sit up, realizing I must have nodded off with my hand in Gale’s.  He gives my fingers a reassuring squeeze and then stands to open the door.  I slouch forward, cradle my forehead in my hands, and brace my elbows on my knees.  I scrub my face, taking a moment to gather all my pain and lock it deep, deep down: I shove it all into a chest and then throw it overboard into the darkest part of the sea.  The boat I imagine myself in rocks beneath my feet and the splash of the frigid salt water burns my cheeks.  If I look too closely at this self-crafted daydream, I’ll see a demon prow, so I open my eyes.  They are hot.  My vision blurs.

I take a deep breath.  I will not allow Haymitch or Gale to pity me.  Absolutely not.

I drop my hands, lean back, and—

—and I stare at the figure standing just inside the door.

Am I still dreaming?  Daydreaming?

“You… cannot be here,” I whisper.

He shoulders past Gale and limps over to me.  He sinks down to his knees.  “But I am.”

“No… you are free and you sail to Denmark with Káto and…”

My voice dies of thirst before his fingertips press softly against my lips.  “I went with them to the river crossing, but no further.”  He smiles ruefully.  “Haymitch was waiting for me at the gate.”

I don’t understand.  My hands tremble, limp-wristed between my knees.  Peeta’s are warm and gentle as he cups my face.  “Did I consider returning to Denmark with them?  Yes,” he admits.  “Did I – for even the span of a heartbeat – consider leaving without you?  No.  Never.”

“Never?”  I do not recognize my own voice.  It is a ghostly sob on a hitching breath.

“Not once, Katniss.  I belong here.  Right here.  With you.”

Yes, Peeta belongs here.  He has seen the beauty and the horror of this life, and he is still _here._

“And you cannot give up on us again,” he firmly commands.  When I scowl in confusion, he adds, “You sent me away.  Why did you do that?”

I have nothing but the truth to offer.  “If you stay here with me, you are a slave.  We must serve Samland.  That is first.”

“It is our first action, yes,” he replies slowly, “but not our first thought.  My first thought – when I wake, before I sleep, after a battle, as we sit down to dine together – is of you, and I won’t regret that.  I won’t try to change it.  You are first in my heart.  You always will be.”

His generosity breaks me.  “I am sorry,” I tell him, startling him with my suddenly urgent, groping hands.  I clumsily curl my fingers around his wrists.  “I am sorry I could not think of another way.  I am sorry I did not try.  I did not ask.  I am sorry.”

His lashes lower and he licks his lips.  “Katniss, if you do this, if you take this punishment, I will feel every single lash as if it were striking my own flesh.  I will take them for you if I can do so without shaming you.  I will do whatever you allow.  Just promise me that you will allow me as much as you can.  I will not take what you do not willingly give, just…”  He draws a deep breath and pins me with his bright gaze.  “Can I trust you to give me all you can?”

“Yes.  Yes.”  My nod is a bit frantic.  It frightens me a little.  I might have agreed to far more than I should have or could have out of gratitude, but Peeta has somehow always known not to cross that line.  “But I must— I must do this.”

He presses a small, leather pouch into my grasp and wraps his hands around mine.  “Wait.  Let us offer silver in exchange for the lashes.”

I uncurl my fingers from around the purse and stare at the worn leather.  “This… this is—”

“From Káto.  It’s your freedom price,” he confirms, reaching up to gently coax a lock of hair behind my ear, “but we’ll use it for this.”

I suddenly recall Peeta’s words from that night as he’d placed this pouch in my hand for the first time.  “You said – you saved coins.  Before you met me.  Why?”

I see it in his eyes that he remembers, too.  “For the morning gift,” he confesses after a moment.  “Although I had no desire to take a wife until I saw you.  I wanted you, but I knew I could never have you.  You belonged to only yourself, and I wanted you to be free.”

I bite my lip as he guides my wrists to his mouth and presses a soft kiss to the inside of each in memory of those ropes and my chafed skin.  “I want you to be free,” I whisper.

He smiles sadly.  “No man or woman is free from their fate and _you_ are mine.  And I _don’t_ want a milk maid or anyone else for my wife, dumpling.”

The sharpness of his tone stings.  I deserve that reprimand.  The shame threatens to burn me alive.  I close my eyes and do not open them until his fingers brush my cheeks.

“You are not alone any longer,” he tells me.  “You have a husband and there is no force on land, sea, or sky that will stop him from standing with you this morning.”  His eyes darken with regret.  “I’m sorry I was not with you these past two nights, that I was not here when you woke in the morning.  It will never happen again.  I swear.”

I can’t think of a single word to say, so I do not speak.  I scoot forward on the bench and touch my lips to his.  And it’s not until he kisses me back that I think I’ll be able to survive.  His mouth is warm and soft and welcoming, gentle in the way it connects with mine.  I may lead and he may follow, but he is the one who sustains us.  He perseveres where I would falter from discouragement or exhaustion.  Thus are his kisses which, rather than end or break, endure in memory until our lips can meet again.

When the next knock comes upon the door, Peeta softly untangles our mouths and leans his forehead against mine.  There’s a long pause, but I don’t greet our visitor.  I only have eyes for my husband.

Haymitch clears his throat.  “Katniss, Peeta, it’s time.”

I nod.  “Peeta,” I whisper, “I must have some hits.  Thirteen.”

He squeezes his eyes shut in order to utter one word: “Why?”

“Because I killed a man.”

“You did it to protect your country.  They should not punish you for fighting their battles.”

I open my mouth to protest, but Peeta insists, “Fight this.  Do this for me, Katniss.”

If only I could, but I deserve this punishment.  I’ve earned it—

“Let your people do this for you.”

I startle.

“You are not alone,” he reminds me, his determination and conviction growing with every word that passes his lips.  “Show them that you trust them.  Let them help you now.”

Well, when it’s said that way… what’s the worst that could happen?  I look up at Haymitch over Peeta’s shoulder.

My mentor’s lips curl into a wry smile.  “What does buttercream have to say, dumpling?”

“He wants me to claim innocence.”

Haymitch nods slowly.  “There are many people who will stand up for you.”

After a long moment, I force myself to acknowledge, “But what of Alma’s family?”  Can I really behave as if a man’s death is not even worthy of being avenged?  Does there even exist a greater insult than that?  I do not think so.

Haymitch waits for me to decide.  I look from him to Peeta’s blue eyes.  How much can I give him?  I say to my mentor, “I am guilty, but can people still come forward if they wish?”

“I’ll spread the word.”

I suppose that’s the best we can hope for.  I try my best to convey this to Peeta, but I’m not even sure what it could mean.

Peeta checks, “We will buy mercy from the other lashes?”

“Yes.”

With a sigh, his pale eyelashes flutter.  “And, as for the thirteen, at the first sign of blood, I will take the rest.”

“Peeta—”

“I can’t allow them to lay open your flesh.  You could die from illness, from fever.  I will do this.  It is not your choice.”

I don’t have the strength to hammer away at the hard look in his eyes.  “All right.” 

His fingers tighten around mine.  “I might weep,” he warns me thickly.  His throat spasms when he swallows.

“Then do not watch,” I tell him.  “Look here.”  I stare into his eyes as I wrap my forearms along his.  “And hold me up.  Give me strength.”

“Always.”

So that is how it happens.  I acknowledge my guilt before the council and then I walk with Peeta into the yard.  I refuse to look at the pole where Cray had been killed.  Prim helps me remove my vest and tunic.  Peeta’s hands shake as he pulls my shift up my back and urges the fabric over my head.  Mindful of the crowd, he takes care to keep my arms, breasts, and belly covered with the linen.  He coaxes my braided hair over my shoulder and out of the way, and then his jaw clenches as his hands curl around my elbows.  I can see how he fights the impulse to pull me close and protect my bare back with his broad hands and muscled forearms.  I respect him even more for not giving in to it.

He looks toward Prim and, relenting, I tell her of Peeta’s intention to take the lashes in my place if the damage becomes too great.  She eagerly nods in compliance.  Her relief is painful to see.  I hope I can withstand the lashes in their entirety.  I cannot bear for Peeta to be hurt in my place, but that does not mean that I am blind to his incredible generosity.

“Thank you,” I tell him, whispering in the wake of Paylor’s speech.  She steps back and Brutus steps forward.  The crowd holds its breath.

“For?” he nearly sobs.  There are tears in his eyes.

I clutch his forearms and stare into his beautiful eyes as I speak over the soft whisper of braided leather uncoiling, “You love me enough.”

He shakes his head.  “More than anything,” he corrects.

It is those three words I cling to as Brutus takes the final step forward, raises his arm, and lets the first strike fall.


	73. The Summer Solstice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Fnur for looking over the final three chapters for me. You rock my socks, lady. (^_~)

(Peeta)

 

I hadn’t spoken at Everdeen’s funeral.  I hadn’t sung.

The people of Samland gather in the meadow, silent in the morning sunlight.  Prim and Rory are with them.  Haymitch and Gale as well.  They are waiting for me, but I hang back.  I am not ready.  I would never be ready for this moment to come.

I crouch down beside the mound under which Everdeen lies.  Small, yellow flowers – edible but otherwise useless – have already started to overtake his resting place.  I know I should thank him.  He’d given me so much to be thankful for: a home, a family, a purpose… Katniss.

But just as before, the words stick in my throat.

I pluck a flower instead and then I stand.  I limp over to where everyone waits.  They part for me, allowing me to take my place beside the freshly tilled earth.  Perhaps I am shaming myself when I sink down to my knees and place the blossom upon the new grave.

I had not sung my farewell to Everdeen.  I am not ready to sing for my wife.

_“Katniss…”_

My eyes fly open and my hands scramble over the bedding as I struggle to defeat the dream.  I try to call her name but the swift pain of my heartache leaves me breathless.  The bed is empty.  _Did she—is she— **no** —Katniss!?_

I roll over, scan the room, and finally relax when I see a figure slumped sideways and dozing upon the wooden chest beneath the window.  Untangling myself from the bedding, I shakily cross the room.  There is space to sit behind her, so I do.  Placing my hands upon her shoulders, I slowly caress her shoulder away from the wall until she is leaning against my chest.  I lower my face to her messy hair.  I inhale.  I thank the gods.

I haven’t lost her.

She shifts against me, tensing briefly and testing herself.  She waits for pain to blossom across her back, but it has been weeks since she— I shy away from the memory before it can rise up to torment me yet again.  Katniss sighs, simultaneously sinking deeper into my embrace and distracting me.  “You are worrying,” she mumbles.

“And you were sleeping against the wall.”  She stiffens momentarily.  I pry, “Another nightmare?”

She nods.  That and no more.  She doesn’t need to describe it to me again.  In her dreams, Alma returns.  In her dreams, she’d failed to kill him and he slays those she loves while she is tied to the whipping post, powerless to do anything but watch.  I wish she would wake me and seek comfort rather than simply leave our bed to pace, then sit, and finally nod off from exhaustion.  In _my_ nightmares, I lose her and waking alone is too terrifying to bear.  That single moment in which anything could be real destroys my sanity.

She rubs my arms, which have clenched around her middle.  “It was my plan – return to bed,” she soothes.

“I know.”  I kiss her temple, her cheek, the corner of her jaw.  “You may act upon it at any time.”

Her laughter is more of a snort.  “If it is another day, I can.  Not today.”

I tilt my head back and judge the angle of the light with a squint.  “It’s not day yet,” I tell her.

“Peeta.  That is sunlight,” she informs me with a charmed smile.

I shake my head.  “No, no.  It’s moonlight.  I’m certain of it.”  When I slip out from behind her, take her hands in mine, and tug her toward the bed, she doesn’t resist.  We fall among the furs and we sleep tangled around each other until the room grows warm and the activity in the bailey increases in volume until the presence of the world beyond is impossible to ignore.

There is a crash and a shout beneath our window.  I recognize Rory’s cursing and Prim’s giggles.

“Spies,” I deduce, curling tighter around Katniss and nuzzling her hair aside so I can press my lips to her neck.

“Do not start,” she warns me, but I can hear her smile.

“Start?  Start what?”

“Kiss me,” she retorts, doubly adorable for the way she still mangles Norse speech _and_ how she scrunches up her shoulder to block my path.

I grin and nuzzle her shift-covered shoulder.  “Kiss you?  Oh, all right,” I agree with a put-upon sigh.  “But you should be aware that you are very demanding.”

She squeaks as I rise up above her and, mocking her edict to do otherwise, I begin peppering her bare skin with whiskery kisses: her chin, her ear, her collarbone…  I tug at the tie on her shift.  She grabs my hands in hers and, wrapping a leg around my hip, takes advantage of my weak left side to lay me out flat on my back.

“We have much work today,” she reminds me.  “And we are late.”

I don’t waste time arguing.  “One kiss and we’ll get up.”

She squints warily.  “Only one?”

“A generous one,” I negotiate.

“Hm.  Very well.”

A soft thrill spirals through me as my wife pins my hands to the bed on either side of my shoulders, angles her lithe body fully against mine, tucks her chin down, brushes her nose along mine, and aligns our lips.  She kisses as thoroughly as she defends, as fiercely as she fights, as powerfully as she commands.

Her agile tongue draws against mine – hot-silken-and-slow – and I flush with heat, sighing greedily when she withdraws.  I chase after her lips until she moves out of range and I bask in her soft, knowing smile.  Her thumbs caress my still-trapped wrists.

“Too brief,” I bemoan.

“Oh?  You say I am stingy?”

My grin widens.  I’d just taught her the word yesterday.  I’m pleased and impressed that she remembers.

Before I can cobble together a retort, she lowers her voice and her face until our eyes meet at a lethally short distance.  “I can be stingy about other things.”  She wiggles her hips against mine.

“Please, no,” I beg, recognizing the raspy quality of her words.  She and I have not enjoyed each other since before her father’s death.  It’s been nearly three fortnights.  I have _missed_ my wife.  I _ache_ for the promise of leisurely undertaken explorations.  “What can I barter for an early retreat to our room tonight?”

“Do you refuse me anything?”

“If it is mine, it is yours.”

“Then you will know my barter price tonight.”

She softens this cruelty with a second kiss, a deep and hungry joining of our mouths that rolls through me, from head to toe.  My fingers curl into fists, but I don’t fight her restraining grasp.  Tonight, I’ll unleash my passion, but we haven’t the time now.  Katniss eases her lips away from mine, smiles down at me, and then throws herself out of bed, standing in one smooth motion.  She doesn’t wince or flinch.  Her back is truly healed now.  The damage done by the final strike is undone; her flesh is whole again.

Shying away from the memory of her blood and strangled whimpers, I reach for a tunic and she pulls on a gown.  I happily assist with her laces and she attends to my belt.  With every mundane favor we do each other, the day sweetens until the prospect of facing the world outside our chamber is palatable.  We’re just stepping into our boots when there’s a knock upon the door.  It’s Prim and breakfast is ready.

I think Katniss says something to her about our window.  Prim blushes and mutters a retort before striding ahead.

Katniss smirks, glances sidelong in my direction, and confides, “I asked – she does not like the view of her window?”

I think I can predict where this is going.  Biting down on a smile, I prompt, “And she said?”

“She was only worried because we are late.”

“Worried.  Of course.  Not curious.”

“Of course.”

She bites back a smile of her own.  I smother a chuckle.  What is it about the corridors of the keep that brings out our naughty, childish nature?  Whatever sorcery it is, it lingers through the day-meal.  Katniss playfully bumps her knee against mine beneath the table until I threaten to feed her berries from my fingertips like the nauseously lovesick husband that I am.  She turns away, perhaps to hide a smile, and jostles me with her shoulder.

Parry and thrust.  For now, we tease and tempt.  Remind and reaffirm.  But come this evening, she and I will be evening the score.

My mind is still preoccupied with our plans for later as I stagger down the road through the village, dodging children at play and frantic relatives as they hurry to fetch water or beat wrinkles out of ceremonial gowns and tunics.  There will be eleven couples performing the wedding rites this afternoon: the greatest number at any one summer solstice festival in recent memory.  The entire country is in an uproar over it.

I can only imagine how unenthused Katniss must be right now, duty-bound to the fortress as she attempts to assist her sister’s efforts to calm panicking mothers and exasperated fathers on the morning of their son or daughter’s wedding.  Balancing the basket I’d collected from the kitchen for Haymitch, I recall the brief impression I’d had of two fathers arguing over a patch of dirt in the bailey.  For the depiction of the seasons, perhaps?  I’m heartedly glad that Katniss and I hadn’t been forced to deal with those sorts of negotiations.

Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed by an illusion of Prim’s attempts to mediate such a dispute between Haymitch and a whole-and-healthy King Everdeen.  I stumble, catching myself on a nearby cottage wall.  My heart throbs, curling up tightly in my chest as if it might cringe into a small, safe corner.  It’s true that I hadn’t known Katniss’ father well, but that only makes me wish for his survival all the more.

I draw a deep breath; the past cannot be undone and he would not wish for me to dwell on it while others need me.

Taking a deep breath, I continue on my way.  The narrow path to Haymitch’s new place is still a home to tufts of grass and hearty weeds.  I’m sure that it won’t be long before the trail becomes dull and dusty with frequent use.

“Morning, buttercream,” he grumbles as I come around the corner of the house.  I’ve interrupted feeding time.  The dozen geese he tends are flapping their wings and honking madly for more grain to be scattered.  He spies the basket I carry and mutters, “I can cook, you know.”

“You can cook, yes,” I agree, speaking slowly.  Samish is still a strange tune and my tongue often gets tangled up.  “You cooked?  Today’s morning?”

“Well…”  He eyes the load in my hands.  I set it down beside his front door with a grin.

“You’re welcome,” I mock.

He rolls his eyes and tosses another fistful of feed out into the frenzy.  I don’t know the words to formally invite him to the banquet this afternoon, but I don’t think fancy words can sway a man like Haymitch.  And I expect he’ll come anyway for the wine, so I speak plainly, “Bring your cup today.  We will drink.”

“Oh, yes, we will,” he agrees through a wheezing chuckle.

I give him a nod in parting and start on my way back to the fortress.  I’m not sure how much help I’ll be there.  I can lift the heavy tables in the dining hall, yes, but I won’t be able to carry them outside and down the steps to the yard.

I’ve just reached the road – and have just jumped back quickly to avoid a woman bustling past with an armload of laundered linens – when a noise erupts from the fortress.  The horn.  I turn toward the horizon and spot the thin column of smoke snaking up to the sky.  The signal fire.

We have visitors.

There’s nothing I want more than to charge into the fortress and find Katniss, but I can be of help here, now, to the frazzled people of the village.  I stay where I am.

I don’t know if my presence is calming, but the wedding panic fizzles into a sense of purpose as people gather their belongings and fetch their animals.  I end up dragging the same stubborn nanny goat into the fortress that I’d been charged with the first time smoke had announced an arrival upon our shores.  I spot Haymitch inside the fortress walls as I tie the creature to a post before heading back out into the village.  I wonder what he’d done with his geese?  Shut them inside his house or let them roam?

In any case, there’s food and clothing and chickens and pigs to be relocated.  I’m handing over an armload of squirming, squealing piglets to a pair of young brothers when I finally glimpse my wife striding down the steps of the keep, my bracers clutched in her hands.  There is more to be done, but I’ll take this moment with her.  They can permit me this much.

“Wrists,” she demands as we draw even with each other.  I hold out my arms and she laces the leather arm guards up tightly.  As she works, I take an inventory of her: knife, ax, bow, arrows.  Her gown has been replaced; she is dressed for battle.

With a last tug on the leather cords, she pulls a sheathed knife from her own belt and hooks it onto mine.  I pull her close to kiss her forehead and pet her tightly braided hair.

“Take care.”

She nods.  Her arms band around my waist and squeeze me tightly.  “I will.”

I hear the horses approach from the stables before I see them from the corner of my eye, but my attention does not waver.  I lean in for a soft kiss, not a farewell, but a promise.  A reminder of all we have yet to do and become together.

She strokes my cheek to lessen the unkind necessity of parting.  I drop my hands and lace my fingers together, offering her a boost into the saddle.  Her hand on my shoulder – a brief squeeze – and then her boot in my hands – I straighten – and she’s astride the beast that had brought us here in the spring.

Our gazes met in a moment that is brief but true.  She must go.  I must stay.  This is what Samland demands of us.

As she passes the gate with her comrades, Chaff steps up beside me and offers me a spear.  I take it blindly.  It is agony to watch Katniss ride off into the unknown, to not be able to face it with her.  It tests the very limits of my strength to wait here, trusting her to return to me.

I hate the fact that my leg prevents me from fighting beside her, and yet I must also be thankful for it.  If it hadn’t been ruined by the boar all those years ago, if it had taken Káto’s leg instead, I never would have become the man that I am.  I might have learned warcraft.  I might have fought and raided and killed in my brother’s stead, winning honors and glory and plunder for our father.  I might have even been one of the warriors who’d raided this humble land last year and taken its daughter captive.  My hands might have harmed her instead of saved her, protect her, healed her.

That could have been our fate.

I am glad it was not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I realize there was almost no mention of Katniss' punishment or the fall out. This chapter was mostly about showing that Peeta and Katniss are okay despite everything they've been through. The next chapter will answer your questions. (^_~)


	74. An Accord with Denmark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Flashbacks involving some gore and a good deal of angst

(Peeta)

 

The fortress wall is no place to daydream, to permit distractions, but I can still _see_ the whipping post even though it no longer stands in the bailey.  It’d been pulled out of the earth and hauled away the day after Katniss had clung to me rather than it, but I will always remember where it had been.  I’ll always see a ghost of it out of the corner of my eye.

Sometimes I still hear the sound of the whip falling.  I hear it in the softest breeze, in the creak of leather, the scuff of a boot in the dust.  I try not to close my eyes because I know the instant I do, I’ll be there again, grasping Katniss’ bare elbows so tightly I’m leaving bruises, listening to the sound of the braided leather and sharpened rawhide tails slicing through the air.

At first, I hadn’t really believed my own ears.  I hadn’t trusted the motion, blurred in the background beyond my focus upon Katniss’ steady gaze.  The first strike had fallen, struck, and not even a gasp had escaped Katniss.  But then—

_Another strike and – I realize that I’m letting this happen.  I’m letting this happen **to her**.  She clenches her jaw, curls her fingers into the fabric of my tunic and bruises the flesh of my forearms – holds me tightly – **snap!** – she flinches – my eyes water – it’s only been three lashes but how can I let her take the rest when – **snap!** – I can’t do this I can’t let her do this I’ll take them for her **please Katniss—!**_

_A battle of wills is waged in silence as she tries to hold me fast and my tears plead with her to let me intercede.  My lips move – **Please** – but she shakes her head – **I can do this** – **snap!** – and she’s no longer able to remain silent.  I look to Prim, beg her to come to my aid, to stop this, to force Katniss to honor her promise: she will allow me to take the remainder of the lashes once she reaches her limit.  Prim watches the proceedings with wide, worried eyes, tracking every whip strike, flinching openly, but she does not speak._

_“One more,” Katniss breathes-demands-decrees._

**_Snap!_ **

_And she says it again: “One more.”_

_And again: “One more.”_

_And again: “One more.”_

_My horror and self-loathing is nearly incapacitating.  Eight lashes and hardly anything louder than a squeak ekes through her gritted teeth.  My hands have gone numb from her unbreakable grip on my arms._

_“Katniss, let me—”_

_“One more.”_

**_Snap!_ **

_Katniss cries out and then Prim and Haymitch are stepping forward to intercede.  From Prim’s frantic gestures toward her sister, I know something is wrong.  I pull Katniss snugly against my chest, look down over her bare shoulder and I see—_

_The ninth strike had torn her open.  My hands shake.  I panic, pawing at the drops of blood as they run as freely as my tears._

“Peeta.  Peeta!”

My eyelids fly open as a shove sends me nearly stumbling to the walkway.  If not for Chaff’s grip on my arm, I would have.  I count to three very slowly as I draw a measured breath.  “What?” I hiss back at him.

He nods over the battlement toward the forest road and just that quickly, the unbearable wait is over.  The dread of what may come is banished and forgotten.  The moment Katniss emerges from the shadows riding at a sedate pace, I can breathe.  The moment she slides down from her horse’s saddle and into my arms, my tongue unknots so I can speak.

I hold her too tightly, I know, but she doesn’t complain.  I tilt my cheek against her hair and relish the sweetness of relief, eyes closed, heart full, and hands shaking.  The activity in the bailey is uninterrupted by our display.  Everyone has probably gotten used to it by now.  I am woefully incompetent at hiding my affection for my wife.

A not-so-discreet cough makes me smile.  “You again,” I mutter grumpily in the direction of the man hovering at my wife’s shoulder.  Opening my eyes, I demand, “Has your smell improved at least?”

“Doubtful,” Johanna wryly contributes with a sniff and an expressive curl of her lip.

Káto beams and opens his arms wide.  Katniss wisely ducks out of my grasp before she is trapped in my brother’s aromatic embrace with me.  I choke showily on the cloud of stale sweat and sea salt.

Everyone laughs.

I slap him on the back enthusiastically.

Oh, how different this reunion is from the last one.  But, to be fair, I suspect the purpose of their visit is wildly different as well.

I’m right.  After a meal and baths – while the preparations for the festival continue under Prim’s direction – Káto quietly requests an audience with Samland’s king and queen.

Katniss and I oblige.

“But first,” he entreats, “tell me how this came about.”  Káto gestures to the meeting room and fortress keep around us.  “Last I knew, your wife was to be flogged for murder.”

“She was,” I answer, reaching for Katniss’ hand.  I try to keep speaking, but the memory of that day destroys my words.  My tongue floats uselessly up to the roof of my mouth.  I swallow with difficulty.

I remember.  The ninth lash – her blood – my shout of “I will take the rest!” but no one had understood my words, spoken in Norse, until I’d tried to pass Katniss to her sister so that I could remove my tunic, and then Gale had come forward, and then Chaff and so many others all standing shoulder-to-shoulder.  Standing together.

Haymitch had indeed spread the word that Katniss would accept their help and forgiveness.

“Your friends, Katniss,” I’d rasped.  Her eyelashes had fluttered and her eyes had flickered with something akin to gratitude.  She’d smiled, slumped against my chest, sobbed in her next breath.

The whip had not risen a tenth time: the final four lashes had been stayed.  Her people had defended her.  Just as I’d suspected they would if given leave to do so.

I’d pressed our luck a bit more, leading Katniss toward the keep as Haymitch had begun negotiating with Alma’s family, my purse of coins keeping company with a second pouch in his grasp.  The crowd had made way for us and I’d been thankful, relieved, furious, frightened, and a thousand other things as Katniss had gripped me tightly in order to walk under her own power.  We’d made it to our bedchamber and I’d lowered her to the bed, petting her hair and holding her hand until Prim’s arrival with everything she would need to help me mend my wife.  Katniss had done her best to remain silent.  Knowing it gave her something other than the pain to focus on, I’d let her.

I remember the days that had followed.  Haymitch had been unusually tolerant of communicating by way of my etchings as Katniss had convalesced.  Prim and Rory, Chaff and Gale and the others had all stayed close, hovering as Katniss had battled through the pain and the fever, at which point I hadn’t given a damn about the council.  Seeing Katniss caught up in delirium had terrified me out of my wits.

I thank the gods for her people; they had stepped up yet again, spoken up, lauded and defended her to the council as she has always and relentlessly honored and defended Samland.

“Hey,” she whispers.  Her fingers slide over the back of my neck and into my hair.  I sigh.  I may not have wanted to relive the memory here or now, but it had pulled me in regardless.

“I’m sorry,” she tells me.  “But thank you.”

I pretend she’s thanking me for every application of ointment I’d dabbed onto her back, every morning and evening I’d wrapped her tightly in fresh bandages, the gentle baths and meal trays and all the rest of it.  I pretend she isn’t thanking me for holding her up so she could be flayed.

“Peeta,” Káto murmurs, his expression earnest.  “Let it go.  It’s done.”

I nod.  He’s right.  It’s done and Katniss is fine.  I draw in a deep breath.  I exhale.  I concentrate on the good things we have and on the humorous conclusion to such horrible events.

“The council asked us to rule, to wear the mantle of king and queen,” I tell him, recalling how Katniss had stood before them, body weakened, back aching, muscles stiff, but her chin lifted and eyes blazing bright.  With a glance at Katniss, I cue her to finish it just as she had that morning.

She does: “We said no.”

Káto pauses.  Blinks.  Looks from my smug grin to Katniss’ haughtily arched brows.  “Come again?”

“We are not king and queen,” Katniss repeats on our behalf.  “We serve.”

Yes, our position now is much like Haymitch’s had been.  We serve.  We advise.  We protect.  We leave the judgments and all the rest of it to the council, and good riddance.

Katniss adds, “When my sister is of age, the council will think – again – about Samland’s king and queen.”

Káto turns to me.  “What is your hope, then?”

“There is no hope about that.  We do not want it,” Katniss answers firmly.

My brother gives me a disbelieving look.  I smile.  It’s true.  I’ve no use for a king’s mantle, nor does Katniss have use for a queen’s.  Prim and her future husband are welcome to both.

Katniss clears her throat.  “Samland needs us.  What does Denmark need?”

And just that abruptly, my wife has turned the focus of the conversation on Káto.  He grins, charmed by her lack of patience for small talk and her irritation with dwelling on uncertainties.  There are moments when I think Katniss should have been born a Norsewoman.

Leaning back on his bench, Káto answers lightly, his eyes sparkling in stark contrast to his words, “Timber for ship building and a berth for launching a fleet.”

This is no small request.

“Harald will make war on Norway?” I confirm.

Káto nods.  “Sweyn’s attacks have grown more bold this past spring.  He knows our harbors well and he strikes at our ships.  We must respond quickly.”

“Why not ask Sweden for this?” Katniss daringly questions.  “They are closer to your homeland and your enemy.”

“Close enough to betray us,” Káto admits.

That is also true.  Sweden could favor either Denmark or Norway easily in the coming conflict.  Or perhaps play each against the other, hoping the two nations will exhaust their forces to the point that Sweden will be guaranteed a quick conquest of both lands.  Samland is the much safer wager in this case, even without my presence here.

Katniss replies slowly, “I will think of this, but we will request things, too.”

“Of course.”  Káto glances at me.  I can see the happy calculation in his eyes.  He can guess what Katniss will ask for on behalf of her country – a peaceful alliance, a trade agreement, safe passage for her countrymen through Denmark’s land and waters, perhaps even a representative of Samland at Harald’s court.  I do not think any of these things are truly insurmountable obstacles.

“Is there another thing?  A discussion?” Katniss – again – bluntly inquires.

Káto shakes his head, laughing softly.  “No, that is all for now.”

She glances at me, a question in her eyes.  “You wish to speak to your brother?” she asks in Samish.

I nod.

Standing, she tells him in the speech of Denmark, “Stay.  Enjoy the festival and feast.  It begins soon.”

Katniss circles around behind our bench, her hand trailing over my shoulders in a reminder of the dance she and I had done at our wedding ceremony.  I grin after her as she leaves.

Once the door shuts, Káto asks, “Will you and she really give the throne to her sister – uncontested – in a few years’ time?”

I shrug.  He must have already guessed that neither Katniss nor I want to lead indefinitely; he is merely shocked that we’ve dared to hope for a different life some years in the future.  “Katniss’ sister, Primrose, is very capable.”

“A warrior like your wife?”

“No.  She’s a healer, but her wits are not to be underestimated,” I add, thinking of the board game we’d played at Everdeen’s bedside.

“So, in other words, she’s like you?”

I choke on a breath.  “I suppose that’s true.”

Káto leans closer, “It would be better for this country to have a queen or king who is not afraid to slit the throat of the enemy.  You know that is true strength as we see it.”

Yes, the nations of the north all respect unflinching bravery, decisive actions, and warrior prowess.  Katniss has those qualities in abundance, but Samland itself needs a softer hand most days.  A hand like Prim’s… or mine.

“Do whatever you can to convince the people that Katniss is the right choice.”

I snort.  “It is not the people or the council who need convincing.”

Káto rolls his eyes.  “Fine.  Convince _Katniss,”_ he counsels softly, as if one of Harald’s advisors might be eavesdropping.  Such a man would surely advocate weakening Samland and then claiming the nation for Denmark.

I squint playfully at him.  “I must be daydreaming.  The future king of Denmark would never say such a thing.”

Káto chuckles and unwinds his shoulders into a carefree shrug.  “Only the Fates can know the future,” he points out.

“Then let us speak of things we _can_ know.  Tell me about your wife and children.  And Sigga, Dalla, all the others.  Tell me everything.”

Grinning widely, he does.  We sit on benches of equal quality and height, facing each other, laughing and grumbling in turns until a knock upon the door summons us to the festivities outside.  As we stand, Káto’s gaze incidentally meets mine and I realize that I feel no need to look away.  We are brothers, grown men, and equals in the eyes of the gods… and perhaps equals in each other’s eyes as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I made you wait a whole chapter to see how Katniss' punishment went. I didn't mean to torture you (well, OK, I didn't mean to ONLY torture you). I just didn't want to write a second whipping in the same way as the first (i.e., Cray's). Also, I wanted to suggest a vague parallel between Peeta's episodes in MJ and his flashbacks here.
> 
> I know that some of you were hoping Harald would make an appearance, but unless he's planning to wage war or accept tribute or rule over another land, I don't think a king would be free to leave his country. Besides, Harald might love Peeta, but Peeta is still illegitimate and there's no way Harald could leave Denmark "just to visit" him. In order for Harald to go to Samland, he'd have to be showing up with the intention of destroying it or claiming it as part of his kingdom, neither of which Katniss would ever allow. So, I'm sorry there wasn't a big, cuddly family reunion, but that's just how things were back then. Woe, but true.
> 
> So... did you guys like the twist about Katniss and Peeta turning the council down? (I'm kind of in love with it, personally.) (^_~)


	75. Inseparable

(Peeta)

 

“Did you dance like that?” Johanna snickers under her breath.  The taunt doesn’t surprise me.  The fact that she isn’t disrupting the music with her screechy laughter does, though.  It’s almost as if she doesn’t want to ruin the festival for the newlyweds.

“Not _exactly_ like that,” Káto both assumes and answers for me as the grooms twirl with crisp movements around their brides.

“No, not exactly,” I allow.

The pair of them snort and snicker with mirth at the thought of me bumbling through the intricate dance that the couples are performing upon the four-season-painted ground.  I ignore my brother and Kolfrosta’s elder sister in favor of seeking out Katniss’ gaze.  We share a look and a memory.  No, I had not danced like that.  Instead, I had scooped Katniss gently up in my arms and knelt among the scattered dyes with her upon my knee.  Her hands had been warm and tantalizing on my shoulders.  I’d kissed her in front of everyone.  I can still remember her taste.  The wine, the ale, the water, the herbs, the essence of _her_ – all mingling on her tongue and mine.

I inhale sharply as that memory blends and twists into another: Katniss, bare before me, reclining back against our bed furs, my hands upon her hips and her thighs over my shoulders as I’d tasted—

I startle as Katniss leans across me and shoves at Káto and Johanna, jostling them unrepentantly.  “I will call Primrose.  She will teach you the dance.  You will enjoy it.”  This last promise she makes with a sharp-toothed smile.

“She was an excellent teacher,” I contribute, enjoying the wide-eyed looks we’re being given from our tormentors though I keep both of them exiled to the periphery of my vision.  I only have eyes for Katniss.  Our gaze brims with shared secrets.

Johanna rolls her eyes at us and belches.  “Where’s the ale?”

Katniss gestures toward the barrel beside the outdoor kitchen.  Káto accompanies her to refill his own drinking horn.  I waste no time in curling an arm around Katniss’ waist.  Nuzzling her ear, I purr naughtily, “How early is too early to retire for the evening?”

She bites her lip.  Her smile teases.  The look in her eyes ignites tiny fires of anticipation in my blood.  She opens her mouth to draw a breath.

A familiar grouchy remark interjects, startling both of us.  “Go,” Haymitch grumps, nodding in the direction of the keep over his shoulder.

He snarls something else that I do not catch as he stomps over to the array of gifts meant for the kiss-and-catch.  Katniss and I both stare in bemusement as he plops down on the bench, tips his flask back, and then he glances back at us over his shoulder.  His scruff-bordered lips twist into a smirk.  He flagrantly shoos us both toward the keep.

I blink in surprise.  We may not be a king and queen, but we still maintain this fortress on behalf of Samland and, as the festival is being held within its walls, the passing out of the gifts ought to fall to us.  “Is he taking over our host and hostess duties?  Of his own free will?”

Katniss pulls on my hand.  She laughs at my unapologetic amazement.  “He may change his mind,” she warns in a soft, throaty voice.

My resistance evaporates.  “Yes, let’s depart while we still can.”  The last thing I want is to spend the remainder of the evening pouring ale and attempting conversation, especially with Katniss’ tempting warmth hovering at my side, so close but still far too distant.

Katniss doesn’t bother to make our departure less blatant and I do not have the patience to convince her to try.  She leads the way up the steps to the keep and we stumble down the corridor to our room, nearly falling across the threshold, messy and tangled with greed for each other.  Our mouths crash together before the door settles back into its frame.  She gropes for the lock.  I retreat far enough to give her an enthusiastic smile before I press my lips to the tender skin of her neck.

“Tell me we don’t have to concern ourselves with our visitors tonight.”

She hums.  “We will not leave this room, you and I.”

I groan, plant my hands on either side of her head against the wall, and allow my body to do as it likes.  I surge forward and our forms fit and lock.  Even through our clothing, the feel of her-me-us is exceptionally mind-emptying.

She tilts her head forward until the tip of her nose grazes my neck.  Inhales deeply.  When she sighs with contentment, her body melts against mine, her back arching forward and creating an inviting space for my hands to fill between her lithe body and the wood paneling.

The laces of her gown are no match for my determined fingers.

Even before I’ve loosened the bodice completely, she’s fighting the sleeves over her shoulders and down her arms.  I should slow this.  Temper our passion with tenderness.

I don’t know that I could even if I’d genuinely wanted to.

Not even the ridges of the newly-formed scars upon her silken back give me pause.  She surges against my fingertips, pressing closer to my hand.

“There is no pain,” she promises me between messy kisses, but it is not that I fear hurting her.  No, I honor her and I marvel at _us._   Her scars are fewer and better-knit than mine, but we still match.  In this way, despite our innumerable differences, Katniss and I are the same: we’d come between the monster and the people we protect.  We’d volunteered.

A part of me will miss the evenings spent dabbing poultice over Katniss’ raw skin.  A part that needs Katniss to need me and only me.  A part of me that aches with thanks for so many things that might have come to pass but had – at the final moment – been defeated.  How often have I thought over the events of the past, wondering which path-not-taken or word-left-unsaid would have led to her death, to mine, to me _not_ crouching over her in the lamplight as I’d dressed her wounds?  How close had we come to losing each other?  By how fine a margin is this moment – here and now – real?

The mere contemplation of it makes me clumsy with urgency and an unquenchable thirst for her.  Together, we shove her shift and gown to her waist and then she works on my belt as I map her bare shoulders and chest with butterfly kisses.

“Peeta…”

“Hm?”  My fingers splay wide as I stroke her back from the nape of her neck all the way down to the curve of her hip and back up again.

“Do not, um.  We don’t…”

I promise breathlessly, “Children will wait.  I understand, Katniss.”  I suck the soft lobe of her ear between my lips.

Her hips rock against mine helplessly.  My belt falls to the floor with a slap and muffled clatter.

“No, I—I want to, um, share – enjoy – everything.”

I pause.  What?

“I… it is safe now.  We can, um.  I want…”  She blows out a sudden breath.  She is anxious, uncertain, and wanton all at once.  “… you.”

It takes a moment for her husky words to saturate my brain.  And then I heartedly wish she hadn’t said that because—

I hiss in a breath, my entire body heating until the feel of cloth against my skin begins to drive me mad.  My fingers curl into fists, one clamped in a fur wall hanging and the other twisting the fabric of her gown and shift.  “Katniss, you—you want—?”  Oh, dear gods.  I can barely think it, let alone say it.

“Yes.”

In a blur of fumbling hands, urgent breaths, and tumbling cloth, we move from one threshold to another as we cross the bed chamber.  When the edge of the bed nudges the back of my knees, I sink down, my hands guiding up and down the backs of Katniss’ arms as my trousers slip downward and my boots clatter against the floor.  I retreat, invite, beckon and Katniss pursues, climbing and crawling, crouching over me, canting kisses against my skin.

“Katniss…”  I urge her mouth up to mine and force myself not to twist up off of my back and pin her down.  My body wants hers that badly and that frightens me.  Collecting her hands, I place her palms on my hips to keep me steady.

She consents to my kisses and rubs against my caressing hands.  The light brush of fingertips, the deep surge of my tongue past her lips, her soft moan of approval, the heat of her inner thighs – open and taunting – against my hips and I’m glad she’s holding me down because I want to lose myself in her so very badly—

Her mouth retreats from mine as a single hand moves inland, searing a trail across my skin.  “Can I…?” she asks.

She _asks._

“Please,” I choke.  I gasp as she fits her hand against my flesh.  I forget to breathe as she cants her hips forward and moves to surround me.  So hesitant.  So slow.  I grit my teeth – whimper – scramble for her unoccupied hand, pressing it to my hip harder-tighter-stronger.  I must not move unless she wills it but – oh gods – the feel of her—Katniss—!

She studies me, breath panting and breasts rising-falling-rising-falling.   Her eyes unfocus, soften.  Her lips part helplessly with a shock of pleasure.  She licks them.  I close my eyes, but it’s too late.  I cannot hold back.

My fingers twist among the furs, claw and scrape.  “I’m sorry,” I blurt.

She pauses, still hovering above me with one hand bracing her weight against my hip and the other still curled around me as we find our way to each other.  Her entire body clenches and her voice twists my heart.  “Peeta?”

The sound of my name breathed from her lips, the feel of holding me so tightly in her heat, and I’m lost.  Brilliant light-heat-desire races through my body, and darkness-silence-softness takes me.

When I open my eyes – push through the thrumming of my laboring heart – I discover that my hands are mindlessly petting Katniss’ thighs in lazy circles.  I’ve nearly caught my breath when I realize two additional things.  First is my shame.  Looking up into Katniss’ knowing grey eyes, another apology tugs at my lips.  She leans forward and brushes her fingers over my mouth, shushing me without a sound.  And that’s when I realize the second point of interest: we are locked together.  Completely.

“I was slow,” she says with a lopsided, rueful grin.

“No,” I insist, grinning up at her.  “No, there is no too slow or too fast, Katniss.  Not where _you_ are concerned.”  I, on the other hand, had been much, _much_ too fast.

She bites her lip, mirth pulling at every feature of her face.  “Um.  But, this time – _one_ time – I am not impatient.”

I snort out what can only be called a giggle.  Katniss’ breathy laughter joins mine.  The incidental motions of our bodies make me tingle and flush anew.  Sobering on a shiver of desire, I reach up and trace the escaped locks of her dark hair as they spill over her shoulders, down her arms and over her breasts.  It won’t be long before she’ll have to hold me steady again.  Now more than ever, I refuse to lose myself to mindless lust.  “Do you feel any pain?” I ask, bracing myself for the inevitable wave of regret.

She shakes her head and I suck in a breath as she blankets me with her body, pressing our bellies and chests together, tunneling her fingers into my hair, kissing my neck.  “No pain,” she sighs.  “I belong here.”

My arms arch over her waist and back.  My fingertips trace along the tendrils of her mussed hair.  She is not speaking of this bed, this room, this fortress, or even this country.  Katniss is speaking of the two of us, inseparable.  That is what we are, by choice or design it matters not.  It matters not if we are meant to be together, if the Fates have willed it to be so.  It matters not where our path will take us in the future.  It matters only that we are together.

Katniss hums softly, her lips moving against my beard and her fingertips swirling patterns on my skin.  I recognize the slow, rising melody.  She’d sung it by the river where we’d once fished.  My heart had been hers long before that moment but, when she’d sung, this fierce shield maiden’s gentle, sorrowful voice had seduced my spirit.

She sings just as gently as she had then but there is no sadness in her now.  Now she sings not for things lost but for what we’ve found.  And, at long last, I can understand the words.

_“Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true—_

_“Here is the place where I love you.”_

When tears spill from my lashes this time, she reminds me that the day is not yet done and nightfall is but a distant promise.

The lamps eventually burn low before we allow slumber to cover our bare skin with its sweetness and warmth.  My last thought is of Katniss, of a forest-shadowed road which leads us to a river-bound ship, of our child growing in her belly as we journey onward.  Where we venture, I do not know, but it does not matter.  Katniss and I may serve a master, a king, a country – we may do our duty – but in each other we are free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You were maybe hoping for a little more resolution between Harald and Peeta, but unfortunately I don't think that would be possible except through Kato, and since he's visiting Samland on official (friendly) business, I think we can infer that Harald approves.
> 
> As for Katniss and Peeta's role in Samland in the future... well, I leave that open to your imagination. Go play and enjoy the feels. (^_^)
> 
> Thank you for all of the comments you've left on DSSD. I am so sad to see this journey end, but I'm glad I had the chance to share it with all of you.
> 
> This story was inspired in part (a big one) thanks to the March 2013 Prompts in Panem (promptsinpanem on Tumblr). Thank you, MissHoneywell, for sponsoring such an amazing event. I just don't have words for all the thanks.
> 
> A very special THANK YOU goes out to Fnur (a.k.a. fnurfnur) for looking over the final three chapters of this story and assuring me that it wasn't gibberish. Also, if you all haven't read her story, "Range of Motion", please do! Her masterful integration of Katniss' song - "Deep in the meadow..." - into prose is an inspiration to me!
> 
> For more medieval/pre-medieval Hunger Games fanfiction try: "Britannia et Panem" by Just a Dram, "Legend" by HGRomance, "The Darkest of Reasons" by CapitolAttendant, and just about everything included in the collection "Fairy Tales of Panem" here on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/series/44990
> 
> As for the future of this story, I have some news - good or bad, you decide. I'm currently researching and re-writing DSSD for self-publication as an original work. I ended up loving the concept of this story so much that I've decided to give it a life of its own away from fandom so that anyone (and not just us Everlark 'shippers) can read and enjoy it to the fullest.
> 
> Will I be removing DSSD from AO3 or ff.net when I start publishing? I don't know. It's a possibility. So, if you'd like to be able to read it again in the future, I encourage you to download a copy for yourself. (See the top of the page for the "DOWNLOAD" option? It's magical. Use indiscriminately on all your favorite stories. You won't regret it.)
> 
> If you're interested in following my adventure in re-writing and original character development, I'll be posting and grumbling and fangirling on Tumblr (I'm Manniness) or for publication updates only, I have a homepage (kwriterly.com).
> 
> I hope you'll let me know how you liked "Daughter of Samland, Son of Denmark". It's been an amazing journey for me. I hope it has been for you, too.
> 
> HUGS TO ALL,  
> Manny (^_^)


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